


Southanger Abbey

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Sherlock Meets Jane Austen [1]
Category: Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Captain John Watson, First Kiss, First Time, Gothic, Inexperienced Sherlock, Literary Fusion, M/M, No period-typical homophobia, Parody, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 61,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: When a young man is born to be a hero, something must and will happen to throw a love interest in his way. Thus, seventeen year old Sherlock Holmes is invited by Mrs. Hudson to accompany her to Bath, where he meets the dashing Captain John Watson. Soon his life begins to resemble one of the gothic novels of which he is so fond, as he becomes enmeshed in the schemes of Irene and James Moriarty, and finds himself embroiled in the mysteries surrounding Southanger Abbey.





	1. Being the First Chapter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts), [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



> This story is a collaboration between myself and the ghost of Jane Austen, with the latter contributing most of the work and the former contributing all of the mature content.

No one who had ever seen Sherlock Holmes in his infancy would have supposed him born to be a hero. His situation in life, the character of his father and mother, his own person and disposition, were all equally against him. 

 

His father was a very respectable man, though not particularly gifted, and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his sons. His mother was a woman of uncommon mathematical genius, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had one son before Sherlock was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on to see both boys grow up, and to enjoy excellent health herself. 

 

Sherlock, for many years of his life, had an unfortunate look: a thin, awkward figure, pale skin, dark, unruly hair, and sharp cheekbones. So much for his person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed his mind. He showed a disturbing interest in the gruesome, the mysterious, and the bizarre. Such were his propensities; his abilities were quite as extraordinary. Instead of excelling at cricket or shooting, Sherlock preferred to spend his time reading, or playing the violin. 

 

What a strange, unaccountable character! Yet with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, he had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, though he was noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as conducting experiments. Such was Sherlock Holmes at ten. 

 

At fifteen, appearances were mending: his hair began to curl becomingly, his complexion improved, he grew into his strong features, his eyes gained more animation, and his figure more consequence. His love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and he grew clean as he grew smart; he had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing his father and mother remark on his personal improvement. 

 

"Sherlock grows quite a good-looking lad — he is almost handsome today," were words which caught his ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost handsome is an acquisition of higher delight to a boy who has been looking rather odd the first fifteen years of his life than a beauty from his cradle can ever receive. 

 

From fifteen to seventeen, Sherlock was in training for a hero. He read all such works as heroes must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives. So far, his improvement was sufficient, and in many other points he came on exceedingly well. 

 

His greatest deficiency was in the pencil. He had no notion of drawing — not enough even to attempt a sketch of his lover's profile, that he might be detected in the design. There he fell miserably short of the true heroic height. 

 

At present, Sherlock did not know his own poverty, for he had no lover to portray. He had reached the age of seventeen without having seen one amiable youth who could call forth his sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient. 

 

This was strange indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no — not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a child accidentally found at their door — not one young person whose origin was unknown. Sherlock’s father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children. 

 

But when a young man is to be a hero, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent him. Something must and will happen to throw a love interest in his way. 

 

Mrs. Hudson, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Holmes family lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of her hip. This lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Sherlock, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young man in his own village, he must seek them abroad, invited him to go with her. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were all compliance, and Sherlock all happiness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind comments and kudos, Gentle Reader, are a balm upon my spirit.


	2. Being the Second Chapter

In addition to what has been already said of Sherlock Holmes’ personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what his character is meant to be, that, although he was a genius, he had led such a sheltered life — almost wholly removed from society — that he had very little practical experience on which to base his notions, and so he was rather given to flights of fancy. Moreover, while in ten years time Sherlock might become a master of brilliant deductions, he was, at seventeen, as naive and innocent as one could imagine a young man of that age to be. 

 

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Holmes will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Sherlock from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young men away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? 

 

But Mrs. Holmes knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her son from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I beg, Sherlock, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.”

 

Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the Holmes family, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed more consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a hero from his family ought always to excite. Sherlock’s father, instead of giving him an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into his hands, gave him only ten guineas, and promised him more when he wanted it.

 

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the anticipated love interest. Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Hudson's side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that, fortunately, proved to be groundless.

 

They arrived at Bath. Sherlock was all eager delight — his eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. He was come to be happy, and he felt happy already.

 

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Hudson, that the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Sherlock to all manner of desperate wretchedness — whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy — whether by intercepting his letters, ruining his character, or turning him out of doors. 

 

Mrs. Hudson was one of that rare class of females who blossom under the effects of widowhood. Indeed, her delight at the passing of her late husband stretched the bounds of propriety to a shocking degree. In one respect, though, she was admirably fitted to introduce a young man into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young person could be. 

 

Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our hero’s entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and his chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. 

 

Sherlock made some purchases himself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher him into the Upper Rooms. His hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, his clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Hudson and her maid declared he looked quite as he should do. With such encouragement, Sherlock hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but he did not depend on it. 

 

Mrs. Hudson was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two squeezed in as well as they could. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protege, Mrs. Hudson made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Sherlock, however, kept close at her side, and linked his arm too firmly within his friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. 

 

But to his utter amazement Sherlock found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas he had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. 

 

Still they moved on — something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Sherlock had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath him, and of all the dangers of his late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and he began, for the first time that evening, to feel himself at a ball. He longed to dance, but he had not an acquaintance in the room. 

 

Mrs. Hudson did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear — I wish you could get a partner." 

 

For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Sherlock grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

 

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Sherlock began to feel something of disappointment — he was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom he was so wholly unacquainted that he could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of his fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, he felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no friend to assist them. 

 

After looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, they were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. 

 

Mrs. Hudson congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”

 

"How uncomfortable it is," whispered Sherlock, "not to have a single acquaintance here!”

 

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Hudson, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed.”

 

"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here — we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”

 

"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here.”

 

"I wish we had any — it would be somebody to go to.”

 

"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.”

 

"Dear Mrs. Hudson, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody.”

 

"I don't, upon my word — I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance.”

 

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till the dance was over.

 

“Well, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball.”

 

"Very agreeable indeed," he replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn.

 

"I wish you had been able to dance; I wish we could have got a partner for you. But we shall do better another evening I hope," was Mrs. Hudson's consolation.

 

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over — enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a hero, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for Sherlock’s charms. He was now seen by many young people who had not been near him before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding him, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was he once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Sherlock was in very good looks, and had the company only seen him three years before, they would now have thought him exceedingly handsome.

 

He was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in his own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced him to be not bad-looking. Such words had their due effect; he immediately thought the evening pleasanter than he had found it before. His humble vanity was contented — he felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality hero would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of his charms, and went away in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with his share of public attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thrilled to have been invited to include this story in the Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial. As you may have deduced from the name, I will be updating every Sunday. 
> 
> Now that we have made the acquaintance of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and seen them safely delivered to Bath, the next chapter shall, at long last, usher in the promised love interest for our hero.


	3. Being the Third Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turned away his head, not knowing whether he might venture to laugh. 
> 
> "I see what you think of me," said Captain Watson gravely. “I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.” 
> 
> "My journal?” 
> 
> "Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms, was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”

Every morning now brought its regular duties — shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Hudson, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which each morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all.

 

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our hero. The master of the ceremonies, Sir Michael Stamford, introduced to him a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner: a captain by the name of Watson, in dazzling regimental scarlet. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather short, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Sherlock felt himself in high luck. 

 

There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, Sherlock found his partner as agreeable as he had already given him credit for being. Captain Watson talked with fluency and spirit — and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested and intrigued. 

 

After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, Captain Watson suddenly addressed Sherlock with “I have hitherto been very remiss in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; how you like the place in general, and your experience with balls in particular. I have been very negligent — but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these details? If you are I will begin directly.”

 

"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”

 

"No trouble, I assure you." Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, "Have you been long in Bath?”

 

"About a week, sir," replied Sherlock, trying not to laugh.

 

"Really!" with affected astonishment.

 

"Why should you be surprised, sir?”

 

"Why, indeed!" said he, in his natural tone. "But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before?”

 

"Never, sir.”

 

"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”

 

"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”

 

"Have you been to the theatre?”

 

"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”

 

"To the concert?”

 

"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”

 

"Are you altogether pleased with Bath?”

 

“Yes — I like it very well.”

 

“And have you danced with many charming young ladies?”

 

“No, sir. Young ladies are not really my area.”

 

“Ah. Charming young gentlemen, then — have you danced with many of those?”

 

“Only one, sir.” 

 

“Is that so? Now I must give a self-satisfied smirk, and then we may be rational again." 

 

Sherlock turned away his head, not knowing whether he might venture to laugh. 

 

"I see what you think of me," said Captain Watson gravely. “I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.”

 

"My journal?”

 

"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms, was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”

 

"Indeed I shall say no such thing.”

 

"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”

 

"If you please.”

 

"I danced with a very agreeable young man; had a great deal of conversation with him — seems a most extraordinary gentleman — hope I may know more of him.”

 

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson: "My dear Sherlock," said she, "do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard.”

 

"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Captain Watson, looking at the muslin.

 

"Do you understand muslins, sir?”

 

"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown.”

 

Mrs. Hudson was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little notice of those things," said she. "You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.”

 

"I hope I am, madam.”

 

"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go — eight miles is a long way — I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”

 

Captain Watson was polite enough to seem interested in what she said, and kept conversing with Mrs. Hudson till the dancing recommenced. Sherlock hardly listened to their discourse, though, so caught up was he in gazing at his new acquaintance, who seemed to him to be a most extraordinary gentleman, indeed.

 

"What are you thinking of so earnestly?" asked Captain Watson, as they walked back to the ballroom. 

 

Sherlock coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything.”

 

"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me.”

 

"Well then, I will not.”

 

"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorised to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.”

 

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on Sherlock's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether he thought of Captain Watson so much, while he drank his warm wine and water, and prepared himself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young hero can be justified in falling in love before the other's love is declared, it must be very improper that a young hero should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of him. 

 

How proper Captain Watson might be as a dreamer — or a lover — had not yet perhaps entered Mrs. Hudson's head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for her young charge she was on inquiry satisfied; for she had early in the evening taken pains to know who Sherlock’s partner was, and had been assured of Captain Watson's being of a very respectable family; and, of perhaps equal recommendation in her mind, she had immediately ascertained for herself that he was a handsome young man, and looked exceedingly fine in his regimentals.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus far, we have made the acquaintance of Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Captain John Watson. Which character is your favorite? And who do you think will make an appearance in chapter 4? Tune in next Sunday to find out. :)


	4. Being the Fourth Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Irene Moriarty was introduced; and Sherlock, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike Irene; and, after speaking to him with great civility, she observed aloud to her mother, "How unlike his brother Mr. Holmes is!” 
> 
> "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Moriarty. "I did not make the connection!" 
> 
> For a moment Sherlock was surprised; but Mrs. Moriarty and her daughter had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. Mycroft Holmes, before he remembered that his elder brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man at Oxford by the name of James Moriarty.

With more than usual eagerness did Sherlock hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within himself of seeing Captain Watson there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded, for Captain Watson did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. 

 

"What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Hudson as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”

 

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Hudson had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Hudson?" 

 

This question being answered, as it readily was, in the affirmative, the stranger pronounced her own name to be Moriarty; and Mrs. Hudson immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might be, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. 

 

Mrs. Moriarty, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Hudson, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her son, and the beauty of her daughter, when she related their different situations and views — that James was at Oxford and Irene here in Bath, and both of them more beloved and respected by the world than any other two beings ever were — Mrs. Hudson had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Moriarty's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

 

"Here comes my dear girl," cried Mrs. Moriarty, pointing at a smart-looking female who was then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Hudson, I long to introduce her; she will be so delighted to see you. Is not she a fine young woman?”

 

Miss Irene Moriarty was introduced; and Sherlock, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike Irene; and, after speaking to him with great civility, she observed aloud to her mother, "How unlike his brother Mr. Holmes is!”

 

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Moriarty. "I did not make the connection!" 

 

For a moment Sherlock was surprised; but Mrs. Moriarty and her daughter had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. Mycroft Holmes, before he remembered that his elder brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man at Oxford by the name of James Moriarty; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by Miss Moriarty of her wish of being better acquainted with him; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Sherlock heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions he could command; and, as the first proof of amity, he was soon invited to accept an arm of Miss Moriarty, and take a turn with her about the room. 

 

Sherlock was delighted with this extension of his Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Captain Watson while he talked to Miss Moriarty. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love; and Sherlock, who had never before had a friend so nearly his own age — or, truth be told, any friend at all, save Mrs. Hudson — was all eagerness.

 

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young people: such as dress, balls, and flirtations. Miss Moriarty, however, being four years older than Sherlock, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; and could discover a flirtation between any two people who only smiled on each other. These powers received due admiration from Sherlock, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Moriarty's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with him, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection, and an earnest desire of cultivating such abilities in himself. 

 

Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Moriarty should accompany Sherlock to the very door of Mrs. Hudson's house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Sherlock then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Moriarty's progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well he might, for the chance which had procured him such a friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duh! *ominous music* Will Sherlock's friendship with Irene continue to delight him? Or will the connection with the Moriarty family lead our innocent hero astray? Tune in next Sunday, when this tale will continue.


	5. Being the Fifth Chapter

Sherlock was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Moriarty, though they certainly claimed much of his leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Captain Watson in every box which his eye could reach; but he looked in vain. Captain Watson was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. Sherlock hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when his wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, he hardly felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

 

As soon as divine service was over, Mrs. Hudson and her charge eagerly joined the Moriartys; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better company. Here Sherlock and Irene, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was Sherlock disappointed in his hope of re-seeing his partner. 

 

Captain Watson was nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a love interest, threw a fresh grace in Sherlock's imagination around Captain Watson’s person and manners, and increased his anxiety to know more of him. 

 

From the Moriartys Sherlock could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Hudson. It was a subject, however, in which he often indulged with his fair friend, from whom he received every possible encouragement to continue to think of the missing gentleman; and Captain Watson’s impression on Sherlock’s fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. 

 

Irene was very sure that the captain must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Sherlock, and would therefore shortly return. She wondered whether “he might have a sister as handsome and charming as himself,” and something like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Sherlock was wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion — but he was not experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced.

 

Mrs. Hudson was now quite happy. Her daily expressions were no longer, "I wish we had some acquaintance in Bath!" but rather, "How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Moriarty!" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two families as her young charge and Irene themselves could be; never satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Moriarty, in what they called conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs. Moriarty talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Hudson of her gowns.

 

The progress of the friendship between Sherlock and Irene was as quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other by their first names, were always arm in arm when they walked, complimented each other’s choice of fashion for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. 

 

Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding — joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own hero, who, if he accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the hero of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. 

 

Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. There seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. 

 

"I am no novel-reader — I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine that I often read novels — It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. 

 

"And what are you reading, Miss—?” 

 

"Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simply replace the word “novels” with the word “fanfic” and it becomes strikingly clear that Jane Austen was one of us.
> 
> You may have noticed that I’ve changed the rating on this story, and added a few more tags. The “Virgin Sherlock” tag will eventually become incorrect… 
> 
> If you haven’t yet discovered my other fusion of Jane Austen and Sherlock, you might want to check it out. Not Entirely Clueless (http://archiveofourown.org/works/11054937) is based on Emma, with some significant additions. Here are the first two lines:
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and a gay disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; yet he had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to interest or intrigue him. And then the murders began.
> 
> Double your pleasure — double your fun — read this story on Sundays, and that one for a mid-week fix on Wednesdays. And if you’d like to double my pleasure and double my fun, please leave kudos and comments. :)


	6. Being the Sixth Chapter

The following conversation, which took place between Sherlock and Irene in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

 

They met by appointment; and as Irene had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!”

 

"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?”

 

"Oh! These ten ages at least. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. My dearest Sherlock, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with _Udolpho_?”

 

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am at the part with the black veil.”

 

"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”

 

"Oh! Yes, quite! What can it be? But do not tell me — I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”

 

"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished _Udolpho_ , I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”

 

"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”

 

"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. _Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine,_ and _Horrid Mysteries_. Those will last us some time.”

 

"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all deliciously horrid?”

 

"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Hooper, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Hooper, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”

 

"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?”

 

"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Moran at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Hooper to be as beautiful as an angel. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of young man to be a great favourite with everyone.”

 

"Oh, dear!" cried Sherlock, colouring. "How can you say so?”

 

"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Hooper wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly — I am sure he is in love with you." 

 

Sherlock blushed, and disclaimed again. 

 

Irene laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you” — speaking more seriously — “your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.”

 

"But you should not try to persuade me that I think so very much about Captain Watson, for perhaps I may never see him again.”

 

"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!”

 

"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have _Udolpho_ to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Irene, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.”

 

"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read _Udolpho_ before; but I suppose Mrs. Holmes objects to novels.”

 

"No, she does not. She very often reads _Sir Charles Grandison_ herself; but new books do not fall in our way.”

 

" _Sir Charles Grandison!_ That is an amazingly horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Hooper could not get through the first volume.”

 

"It is not like _Udolpho_ at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining.”

 

"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you — what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?”

 

"I hardly know. Something between both, I think. Fair, but not too fair, with hair neither pale nor dark — a light brown, I suppose.”

 

“I see. And what of figure and bearing?”

 

“I never much thought about it. Perhaps a bit on the shorter side, strong and compact, with a military bearing.”

 

"Very well, Sherlock. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Captain Watson.”

 

Sherlock felt himself flush with a mixture of pleasure at the thought of Captain Watson and embarrassment at having been so transparent.

 

“Well, my taste is different,” said Irene. “I prefer ladies, as you must know. But do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject.”

 

Sherlock, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested him at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s skeleton, when his friend prevented him, by saying, “For heaven's sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young ladies who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”

 

Away they walked to the book; and while Irene examined the names, it was Sherlock's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young ladies.

 

"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up.”

 

In a few moments, Sherlock, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the ladies had just left the pump-room.

 

"And which way are they gone?" said Irene, turning hastily round. "One was a very beautiful young lady.”

 

"They went towards the church-yard.”

 

"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it.”

 

Sherlock readily agreed. "Only," he added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young ladies.”

 

"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.”

 

"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all.”

 

"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating them with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.”

 

Sherlock had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Moriarty, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young ladies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the novel Sherlock is reading, you might want to check out a Johnlock version of it that SweetMandolins is writing. It's called The Mysteries of Musgrovio (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9980975) and in addition to being as deliciously horrid as Udolpho, it also promises to have much more sex. ;)
> 
> I've been thoroughly enjoying all of your comments on this fic, and have even been inspired to plan a few changes based on them. If you want to drop by to say "hi," you might also venture a guess as to which two new characters will appear in Bath next week.


	7. Being the Seventh Chapter

Half a minute conducted Sherlock and Irene through the pump-yard to the archway, in clear view of the two young ladies whom they were most decidedly not pursuing; but here they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement by a knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.

 

"Oh, these odious gigs!" said Irene, looking up. "How I detest them." 

 

But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr. Holmes and my brother!”

 

"Good heaven! 'Tis Mycroft!" was uttered at the same moment by Sherlock; and, on their catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches.

 

Sherlock, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received his brother with a somewhat cool reserve; but Mycroft gave every proof on his side of satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes of Miss Moriarty were incessantly challenging his notice; and to her his respects were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed Sherlock, had he been more expert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simply engrossed by his own, that his brother thought his friend quite as pretty as he could do himself.

 

James Moriarty, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the horse, soon joined them, and from him Sherlock directly received the attentions which were his due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of Irene, on Sherlock he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a good-looking man, but seemed fearful of being too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy. Moreover, there was something about his eyes that prickled the hairs at Sherlock’s nape, and drew his mind toward the villains of the gothic novels with which he had recently been so engrossed.    

 

Moriarty took out his watch. "How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Mr. Holmes? It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness.”

 

"You have lost an hour," said Mycroft. "It was only ten o'clock when we came from Tetbury.”

 

"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Mr. Holmes. Do but look at my horse. Did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your life? Three hours and and a half indeed coming only three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”

 

"He does look very hot, to be sure,” said Sherlock.

 

"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.”

 

An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of Sherlock and Irene; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that their brothers should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their respects to Mrs. Moriarty. Mycroft and Irene led the way; and so well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double recommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook and passed the two offending young ladies, she was so far from seeking to attract their notice that she looked back at them only three times.

 

James Moriarty kept pace with Sherlock, and, after a few minutes' silence, renewed the conversation about his horse. "I would not sell my horse for a hundred guineas. Are you fond of an open carriage, Mr. Holmes?”

 

"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am particularly fond of it.”

 

"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”

 

"Thank you," said Sherlock, in some distress, from a doubt of the advisability of accepting such an offer.

 

"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.”

 

“That is a kind offer. But will not your horse want rest?”

 

"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day while I am here.”

 

"Shall you indeed!" said Sherlock very seriously. "That will be forty miles a day.”

 

"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown tomorrow.”

 

"How delightful that will be!" cried Irene, turning round. "My dearest Sherlock, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room for a third.”

 

"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sister about; that would be a good joke! Holmes must take care of you.”

 

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but Sherlock heard neither the particulars nor the result. His companion's discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they met; and Sherlock, after listening and agreeing as long as he could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of the opposite sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which had been long uppermost in his thoughts; it was, "Have you ever read _Udolpho_ , Mr. Moriarty?”

 

" _Udolpho!_ Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to do.”

 

Sherlock, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for his question, but Moriarty prevented him by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since _Tom Jones_ , except _The Monk_ ; I read that t'other day; but as for all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”

 

"I think you must like _Udolpho_ , if you were to read it; it is so very interesting.”

 

"Not I! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”

 

" _Udolpho_ was written by Mrs. Radcliffe," said Sherlock.

 

“No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant.”

 

"I suppose you mean _Camilla_?”

 

"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through it.”

 

"I have never read it.”

 

"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”

 

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor Sherlock, brought them to the door of Mrs. Moriarty's lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of _Camilla_ gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Moriarty, who had descried them from above, in the passage.

 

"Ah, Mother! How do you do?" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. "Where did you get that ridiculous hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Holmes and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near." 

 

This address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. 

 

These manners did not please Sherlock; but Moriarty was Mycroft's friend and Irene's brother; and Sherlock’s judgment was further bought off by Irene's assuring him, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that James thought him the most charming young man in the world, and by James engaging him before they parted to dance with him that evening. 

 

Had Sherlock been older or more self-assured, such attacks might have done little; but, where youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming young man in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the consequence was that, when the two Holmes brothers, after sitting an hour with the Moriartys, set off to walk together to Mrs. Hudson's, and Mycroft, as the door was closed on them, said, "Well, Sherlock, how do you like my friend Moriarty?" instead of answering, as he probably would have done, had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, "I do not like him at all," he directly replied, "I like him very much; he seems very agreeable.”

 

"He is a good-natured fellow. And how do you like the rest of the family?”

 

"Very, very much indeed: Irene particularly.”

 

"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman I could wish to see you acquainted with; she has so much good sense, and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her; and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Moriarty even you, Sherlock, may be proud of.”

 

"Indeed I am," he replied. "You hardly mentioned anything of her when you wrote to me after your visit there.”

 

"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl; such a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in such a place as this — is not she?”

 

"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mrs. Hudson thinks her the prettiest girl in Bath.”

 

"I dare say she does; and I do not know anyone who is a better judge of beauty than Mrs. Hudson. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, brother mine; with such a companion and friend as Irene Moriarty, it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and Mrs. Hudson, I am sure, is very kind to you?”

 

"Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see me,” Sherlock replied with feigned pleasure.

 

Mycroft accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, "Indeed, Sherlock, I always have your best interests at heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Mycroft truly have Sherlock’s best interests at heart? What are James Moriarty’s designs upon our young hero? What will happen in the next chapter, when Captain Watson returns to Bath? I’d love to know your speculations on these or any other points. :)


	8. Being the Eighth Chapter

In spite of Sherlock’s engrossment with _Udolpho,_ and Mrs. Hudson’s fretfulness over a delay caused by her dressmaker, the two managed to reach the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Moriartys and Mycroft Holmes were there only two minutes before them; and Irene having gone through the usual ceremony of meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of his clothing, and envying the curl of his hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.

 

The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and Mycroft, who had been engaged quite as long as his brother, was very importunate with Irene to stand up; but James was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the set before her dear Sherlock could join it too. 

 

"I assure you," said she, "I would not stand up without your dear brother for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the whole evening." 

 

Sherlock accepted this kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Irene, who had been talking to Mycroft on the other side of her, turned again to Sherlock and whispered, "My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you. Your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin. I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say James will be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out." 

 

Sherlock, though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the others rising up, Irene had only time to press her friend's hand and say, "Good-bye, my dear love," before they hurried off. 

 

Sherlock was left to the mercy of Mrs. Moriarty and Mrs. Hudson, between whom he now remained. He could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Moriarty, for he not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of his situation could not be known, he was sharing with the scores of other young people still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner. 

 

To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while his heart is all purity, his actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of his debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the hero's life, and his fortitude under it particularly dignifies his character. Sherlock had fortitude too; he suffered, but no murmur passed his lips.

 

From this state of humiliation, he was roused, at the end of ten minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Moriarty, but Captain Watson, within three yards of the place where they sat. He seemed to be moving that way, but he did not see Sherlock, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in the young man, passed away without sullying his heroic importance.

 

Captain Watson looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Sherlock immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost forever, by being married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it had never entered his head that Captain Watson could be married; he had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom Sherlock had been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant deduction of his sister's now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Hudson's bosom, Sherlock sat erect, in the perfect use of his senses, and with cheeks only a little redder than usual.

 

Captain Watson and his companion continued, though slowly, to approach; and Sherlock, catching the captain’s eye, instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. He returned it with pleasure. 

 

Captain Watson, advancing still nearer, spoke both to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, by the latter of whom he was very civilly acknowledged. 

 

"I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath." 

 

He thanked Mrs. Hudson for her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.

 

"Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is just the place for young people — and indeed for everybody else, too. It is so very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I am quite in luck to be sent here for my health.”

 

"And I hope, madam, that you are finding it of service.”

 

"Thank you, sir. I am.”

 

With all due ceremony, Captain Watson then introduced his sister, Miss Harriet Watson, and Mrs. Hudson moved over to accommodate the young lady, who agreed to join their party. 

 

Captain Watson still continued standing before them; and after a few minutes' consideration, he asked Sherlock to dance with him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the young man; he wished with all his heart he were not already engaged to dance with Mr. Moriarty. In giving his denial, Sherlock expressed his sorrow on the occasion so very much as if he really felt it that had Moriarty, who joined them just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought his sufferings rather too acute. 

 

The very easy manner in which Moriarty then told Sherlock why he had kept him waiting did not by any means reconcile him more to his lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest him so much as to prevent his looking very often towards that part of the room where he had left Captain Watson. Of his dear Irene, to whom he particularly longed to point out that gentleman, he could see nothing. They were in different sets. Sherlock was separated from all his party, and away from all his acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another, and from the whole he deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young man. 

 

From such a moralizing strain as this, he was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hudson directly behind him, attended by Miss Watson and a gentleman. 

 

"I beg your pardon, Sherlock," said she, "for this liberty —  but I am sure you will not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you." 

 

Mrs. Hudson could not have applied to any creature in the room more happy to oblige her than Sherlock. The young people were re-introduced to each other, Miss Watson expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Sherlock with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hudson, satisfied with having so respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party.

 

Miss Watson had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension, the resolute stylishness of Miss Moriarty's, had more real elegance. Her manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of everyone near her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence. 

 

Sherlock, interested at once by her appearance and her relationship to Captain Watson, was desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever he could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much each admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether they drew, or played, or sang, and whether either of them was fond of riding on horseback.

 

The two dances were scarcely concluded, and Miss Watson gone off in search of her brother, before Sherlock found his arm gently seized by his faithful Irene, who in great spirits exclaimed, "At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”

 

"My dear Irene, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were.”

 

"So I told your brother all the time — but he would not believe me. Do go and see for him, Mr. Holmes, said I — but all in vain — he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Holmes? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Sherlock, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people.”

 

"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head," whispered Sherlock, detaching his friend from Mycroft. "It is Captain Watson's sister.”

 

"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw anyone half so beautiful! I pray you will introduce us. But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Holmes, you are not to listen. We are not talking about you.”

 

"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?” said Mycroft.

 

“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”

 

"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”

 

"Well, I declare, I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of? Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable.”

 

In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Sherlock was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while, he could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension of all Irene's impatient desire to see Captain Watson. Her eyes, instead, seemed always returning to the lovely Miss Watson. 

 

When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, Mycroft would have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "I would not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Sherlock, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change partners.”

 

"Upon my honour," said Mycroft, "in these public assemblies, it is as often done as not.”

 

"Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Sherlock, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”

 

"No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.”

 

"There," cried Irene, "you hear what your brother says. Come along, my dearest Sherlock, for heaven's sake, and introduce me to the enchanting Miss Watson." 

 

Sherlock, ever willing to give Captain Watson an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered him once, made his way, arm in arm with Irene, to Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Moriarty, in the hope of finding both Watsons still with them — a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, he felt to have been highly unreasonable.

 

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Moriarty, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner.”

 

"Very agreeable, madam.”

 

"I am glad of it. James has charming spirits, has not he?”

 

"Did you meet Captain Watson, my dear?" said Mrs. Hudson.

 

"No, where is he?”

 

"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you.”

 

"Where can he be?" said Sherlock, looking round; but he had not looked round long before he saw Captain Watson leading a young lady to the dance.

 

"Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you," said Mrs. Hudson; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man.”

 

"Indeed he is, Mrs. Hudson," said Mrs. Moriarty, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world.”

 

This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Hudson, for after only a moment's consideration, she said, in a whisper to Sherlock, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son.”

 

Sherlock was disappointed and vexed. He seemed to have missed by so little the very object he had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline him to a very gracious reply, when James Moriarty came up to him soon afterwards and said, "Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again.”

 

"Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”

 

The rest of the evening Sherlock found very dull. Captain Watson was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Watson was likewise absent; and Irene expressed her dismay at not having the honour of making their acquaintance. Mycroft insinuated himself between Sherlock and Irene, and monopolized the conversation to such a degree that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Sherlock."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the good news is that Captain John Watson is back in Bath. The bad news is that poor Sherlock still hasn’t had a chance to dance with him. Dancing with Mr. James Moriarty is not half so agreeable. 
> 
> In this alternate version of Regency England, heteronormativity simply doesn’t exist, so anyone may dance with anyone else. If you’d like to see what this looks like in practice, check out this video clip of gender-free contra dancing. Aside from the modern clothing, and the lack of assigned gender roles in terms of who leads and who follows, it’s quite similar to an English country dance during Jane Austen’s time.  
> https://youtu.be/fhdnv-ndbAc


	9. Being the Ninth Chapter

Sherlock's unhappiness from the events of the evening appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about him, while he remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving at their lodgings, took the direction of an extraordinary sulk, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of his distress. 

 

He awoke, however, perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of his heart was to improve his acquaintance with Captain and Miss Watson, and almost his first resolution to seek them for that purpose in the pump-room that afternoon. His plan for the morning thus settled, Sherlock sat quietly down to his book after breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one.

 

At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew Mrs. Hudson in haste to the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Sherlock of there being two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, his brother driving Miss Moriarty in the second, before James Moriarty came running upstairs, calling out, "Well, Mr. Holmes, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit for your brother to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but it break down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Hudson? A famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Mr. Holmes, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”

 

"What do you mean?" said Sherlock. "Where are you all going to?”

 

"Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning? We are going up Claverton Down.”

 

"Something was said about it, I remember," said Sherlock, looking at Mrs. Hudson for her opinion; "but really I did not expect you.”

 

"Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come.”

 

Sherlock's silent appeal to his friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown away, for Mrs. Hudson, not being at all in the habit of conveying any expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended by anybody else; and Sherlock, whose desire of seeing Captain and Miss Watson again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who thought there could be no danger or impropriety in his going with Mr. Moriarty, as Irene was going at the same time with Mycroft, was therefore obliged to speak plainer. 

 

"Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?”

 

"Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Hudson, with the most placid indifference. 

 

Sherlock took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes he reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in his praise, after Moriarty had procured Mrs. Hudson's admiration of his gig; and then receiving his friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs. 

 

"My dearest creature," cried Irene, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called him before he could get into the carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off.”

 

Sherlock followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear his friend exclaim aloud to Mycroft, "What a sweet young man he is! I quite dote on him.”

 

"You will not be frightened, Mr. Holmes," said Moriarty, as he handed Sherlock in, "if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the reins for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”

 

Sherlock did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and he was too young to own himself frightened; so, resigning himself to his fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of its owner, he sat peaceably down, and saw Moriarty sit down by him. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse's head was bid in an important voice to “let him go," and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Sherlock, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke his pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and his companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring him that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip.

 

Sherlock, though he could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, Moriarty should think it necessary to alarm him with a relation of its tricks, congratulated himself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave himself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety.

 

A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Moriarty's saying very abruptly, "Old Hudson is as rich as Croesus — is not she?" 

 

Sherlock did not understand him — and Moriarty repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Hudson, the woman you are with.”

 

"Oh! Mrs. Hudson, you mean. Yes, I believe, she is very rich.”

 

"And no children at all?”

 

"No — not any.”

 

"A famous thing for her next heirs. She is your godmother, is not she?”

 

"My godmother! No.”

 

"But you are always very much with her.”

 

"Yes, very much.”

 

"Aye, that is what I meant. She seems a good kind of old lady enough, and has lived very well in her time, I dare say. And when she is gone, you shall likely have the whole of her fortune.”

 

Moriarty's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and Sherlock was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. He followed Moriarty in all his admiration as well as he could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. Sherlock could strike out nothing new in commendation, but he readily echoed whatever Moriarty chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. 

 

"You do not really think, Mr. Moriarty," said Sherlock, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that Mycroft's gig will break down?”

 

"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least — and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds.”

 

"Good heavens!" cried Sherlock. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Moriarty; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is.”

 

"Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.”

 

Sherlock listened with astonishment; he knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for he had not been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. His parents were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; his father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and his mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. 

 

Sherlock reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Moriarty a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but he checked himself, because it appeared to him that his companion did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that Moriarty would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, Sherlock concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm himself no longer. 

 

By Moriarty the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told Sherlock of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds than all his companions together; and described to him some famous day's sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.

 

Little as Sherlock was in the habit of judging for himself, and unfixed as were his general notions of what men ought to be, he could not entirely repress a doubt, while he bore with the effusions of this endless conceit, of his companion’s being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for Moriarty was Irene's brother; and Sherlock had been assured by Mycroft that his manners would recommend him to everyone; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over him before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced him, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust Moriarty’s powers of giving universal pleasure.

 

When they arrived at Mrs. Hudson's door, the astonishment of Irene was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o'clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Mycroft Holmes produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Sherlock was called on to confirm; Sherlock could not tell a falsehood even to please Irene; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice, by not waiting for him to answer. 

 

Irene’s own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation with her dearest Sherlock; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to him, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.

 

Sherlock found Mrs. Hudson just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which he had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?”

 

"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”

 

"So Mrs. Moriarty said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”

 

"You have seen Mrs. Moriarty, then?”

 

"Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together.”

 

"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”

 

"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Captain and Miss Watson out walking.”

 

"Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”

 

"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. I made some discreet inquiries, and have been reliably informed that they are of a very good family, and very rich.”

 

"And are Mr. and Mrs. Watson in Bath?”

 

"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Watson is dead, because I heard there was a very beautiful set of pearls that she was given on her wedding-day and that Miss Watson has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died.”

 

"And is Captain Watson the only son?”

 

"Yes, he is; and a very fine young man, everyone says, and likely to do very well.”

 

Sherlock inquired no further; he had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Hudson had no real intelligence to give, and that he was most particularly unfortunate himself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could he have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded him to go out with the others; and, as it was, he could only lament his ill luck, and think over what he had lost, till it was clear to him that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that James Moriarty himself was quite disagreeable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a busy little bee this past week. In addition to my weekly Wednesday update of my other Jane Austen fusion - Not Entirely Clueless - I also posted two other ficlets.
> 
> Hedgehog Day, 1742 words, rated teen: Five times the hedgehog was an endangered species, and one time the hedgehog was John. http://archiveofourown.org/works/11351790 
> 
> The Bed Sheet Prince, 525 words, rated G: Sherlock was a handsome prince who always wore expensive prince clothes. He lived in a castle with an army doctor named John. Unfortunately, a dragon smashed his castle, burned all his clothes with her fiery breath, and carried John off. Sherlock decided to chase the dragon and get John back. He looked all over for something to wear, but the only thing he could find that was not burnt was a bed sheet. So he put on the bed sheet and followed the dragon. http://archiveofourown.org/works/11359728
> 
> Please check them out, and make my day by leaving comments and kudos in your wake. :D


	10. Being the Tenth Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone may feel for my hero in this critical moment, for every young person has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please.

Mrs. Hudson, the Moriartys, and the Holmes brothers all met in the evening at the theatre; and, as Sherlock and Irene sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which had been collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them. 

 

"Oh, heavens! My beloved Sherlock, have I got you at last?" was her address on Sherlock's entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr. Holmes," for Mycroft was close to her on the other side, "I shall not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. 

 

“My sweetest Sherlock, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask you, for you look delightful. You really have done your hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you already; and as for Captain Watson — but that is a settled thing — even your modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. 

 

“Oh! And his sister! What would not I give to meet Miss Watson! I really am quite wild with impatience. You must introduce them both to me. Are they in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see them.”

 

"No," said Sherlock, “they are not here; I cannot see them anywhere.”

 

"Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with them? But perhaps it is for the best. James is so insistent that I must spend time with your brother.”

 

“And my brother wants me to spend time with yours. I suppose it is because they are such good friends; but really, I should think they ought to let us choose our own acquaintance, especially in a place like this, where there are so many interesting people.” 

 

“Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it.”

 

"No, indeed I should not.”

 

"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world.”

 

"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my head.”

 

Irene smiled incredulously and said no more.

 

Sherlock's resolution of endeavouring to meet Captain and Miss Watson again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, he felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place. 

 

Irene, attended by Mycroft, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Sherlock immediately took his usual place by the side of his friend. Mycroft maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, the three walked in that manner for some time, till Sherlock began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining him entirely to his friend and brother, gave him very little share in the notice of either. At length he disengaged himself from his companions to go and sit down.

 

Before Sherlock could find a seat, however, he most joyfully saw Miss Watson just entering the room. He instantly joined her, with a firmer determination to be acquainted than he might have had courage to command, had he not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Watson met Sherlock with great civility, returned his advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together for quite some time; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.

 

"How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Sherlock's towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused his companion.

 

"John!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well.”

 

"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Moriarty." 

 

Miss Watson could only bow. 

 

"You cannot think," added Sherlock after a moment's silence, "how surprised I was to see your brother again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”

 

"When John had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”

 

"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Donovan?”

 

"Yes, an acquaintance of the family.”

 

"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”

 

"Not very. The young lady I saw you with earlier is much better looking.”

 

“Your brother never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”

 

"Yes, sometimes; but he went out this morning with my father. They shall be expecting me back, now, so I must be going.” 

 

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Sherlock. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?”

 

"Perhaps we — Yes, I think we certainly shall.”

 

"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." 

 

This civility was duly returned; and they parted — on Miss Watson's side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Sherlock's, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them.

 

He went home very happy. The morning had answered all his hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. 

 

What he should wear on the occasion became his chief concern. He cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Sherlock knew all this very well; his great aunt had read him a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet he lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating what to wear to the ball. 

 

Sherlock entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended him thither the Monday before. He had then been exulting in his engagement to Moriarty, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest the unpleasant man should engage him again; for though he could not, dared not expect that Captain Watson should ask him a third time to dance, his wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. 

 

Everyone may feel for my hero in this critical moment, for every young person has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. 

 

As soon as they were joined by the Moriartys, Sherlock's agony began; he fidgeted about if James Moriarty came towards him, hid himself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to him pretended not to hear. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and he saw nothing of the Watsons.

 

"Do not be frightened, my dear Sherlock," whispered Irene, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. My brother, though, has been most insistent that I become better acquainted with his friend. James has just walked off, but he will be back in a moment, and then you may join us.”

 

Sherlock had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, James Moriarty was still in view, and he gave himself up for lost. That he might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, he kept his eyes intently fixed on the floor; and a self-condemnation for his folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Watsons in any reasonable time, had just passed through his mind, when he suddenly found himself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Captain Watson himself. 

 

With what sparkling eyes and ready motion Sherlock granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart he went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as he believed, so narrowly escape James Moriarty, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining him, asked by Captain Watson, as if he had sought him on purpose! It did not appear to him that life could supply any greater felicity.

 

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when Sherlock’s attention was claimed by James Moriarty, who stood behind him. 

 

"Heyday, Mr. Holmes!" said he. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”

 

"I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”

 

"That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the best-looking young man in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will tease me famously.”

 

"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.”

 

"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you there?" 

 

Sherlock satisfied his curiosity. 

 

"Watson," he repeated. "Hm — I do not know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? A friend of mine has got one to sell that would suit anybody. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were backed.”

 

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Sherlock's attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing dancers. 

 

Captain Watson now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or spouses of their neighbours.”

 

"But they are such very different things!”

 

"You think they cannot be compared together?”

 

"To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.”

 

"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light, certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, one person must step forward to ask, giving the other the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between two people, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?”

 

"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them.”

 

“This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?”

 

"Mr. Moriarty is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”

 

"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”

 

"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody.”

 

"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?”

 

"Yes, quite — more so, indeed.”

 

"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”

 

"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”

 

"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. 'For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer.”

 

"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there.”

 

"You are not fond of the country?”

 

"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another.”

 

"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”

 

"Do I?”

 

"Do you not?”

 

"I do not believe there is much difference.”

 

"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”

 

"And so I am at home — only I do not find so much of it. I walk about, observing, here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Captain Watson was very much amused. "Only go and call on Mrs. Hudson!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here.”

 

"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Hudson, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again — I do like it so very much. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”

 

"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do." 

 

Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. 

 

Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Sherlock perceived himself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind his partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards him, he saw him presently address Captain Watson in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in his appearance, Sherlock turned away his head. 

 

But while he did so, the gentleman retreated, and his partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Watson, my father.”

 

Sherlock's answer was only "Oh!" — but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did his eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was his secret remark.

 

In chatting with Miss Watson before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to Sherlock. He had never taken a country walk since his arrival in Bath. Miss Watson, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made him all eagerness to know them too; and on his openly fearing that he might find nobody to go with him, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. 

 

"I shall like it," Sherlock said, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off — let us go tomorrow." 

 

This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Watson's, that it did not rain, which Sherlock was sure it would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for him in Pulteney Street; and "Remember — twelve o'clock," was his parting speech to his new friends. 

 

Of his other, his older, his more established friend, Irene, of whose fidelity and worth Sherlock had enjoyed a fortnight's experience, he scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with his happiness, he cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mrs. Hudson, which took them rather early away, and his spirits danced within him all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My spirits will be dancing as much as Sherlock's if you leave me kind comments and kudos. :)


	11. Being the Eleventh Chapter

The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Sherlock augured from it everything most favourable to his wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, he allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. He applied to Mrs. Hudson for confirmation of his hopes. 

 

Mrs. Hudson's opinion was equally positive. She had “no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.”

 

At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Sherlock's watchful eye, and "Oh dear! I do believe it will be wet," broke from him in a most desponding tone.

 

"I thought it might be," said Mrs. Hudson.

 

"No walk for me today," sighed Sherlock; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”

 

"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so muddy.”

 

"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.”

 

"No," replied his friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt.”

 

After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Sherlock, as he stood watching at a window.

 

"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”

 

"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella! They always remind me of Mycroft.”

 

"They are disagreeable things to carry.”

 

“It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!”

 

"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning.”

 

The rain continued — fast, though not heavy. Sherlock went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, he would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. 

 

"You will not be able to go, my dear.”

 

"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter.”

 

At half past twelve, when Sherlock's anxious attention to the weather was over and he could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took him quite by surprise; he looked ‘round; the clouds were parting, and he instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Hudson, who had "always thought it would clear up.” 

 

But whether Sherlock might still expect his friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Watson to venture, must yet be a question.  As he gazed out the window in desperate hope, his notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised him so much a few mornings back.

 

"Irene, my brother, and Mr. Moriarty, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps — but I shall not go — I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Watson may still call." 

 

Mrs. Hudson agreed to it. 

 

James Moriarty was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Mr. Holmes to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment — there is no time to be lost — we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." 

 

This was of course vehemently talked down by Moriarty as no reason at all; Mrs. Hudson was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. 

 

"My sweetest Sherlock, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlit, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kings Weston.”

 

"I doubt our being able to do so much," said Mycroft.

 

"You croaking fellow!" cried Moriarty. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kings Weston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your brother says he will not go.”

 

"Blaize Castle!" cried Sherlock. "What is that?”

 

"The finest place in England — worth going fifty miles at any time to see.”

 

"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”

 

"The oldest in the kingdom.”

 

"But is it like what one reads of?”

 

"Exactly — the very same.”

 

"But now really — are there towers and long galleries?”

 

"By dozens.”

 

“And secret passages? And a dungeon?”

 

“Of course.”

 

"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot — I cannot go.”

 

"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?” said Irene.

 

"I cannot go, because" — looking down as he spoke, fearful of Irene's smile — "I expect Miss Watson and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”

 

"Not they, indeed," cried Moriarty; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them — does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”

 

"I do not know indeed.”

 

"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?”

 

“Yes."

 

"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl.”

 

"Did you indeed?”

 

"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly.”

 

"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too muddy for a walk.”

 

"And well they might, for I never saw so much mud in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so muddy the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”

 

Irene corroborated it: "My dearest Sherlock, you cannot form an idea of the mud; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”

 

"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”

 

"Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”

 

"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is drier, and call by and by?”

 

"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Watson hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks.”

 

“Oh… Shall I go, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

"Just as you please, my dear.”

 

"Mrs. Hudson, you must persuade him to go," was the general cry. 

 

Mrs. Hudson was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." 

 

In two minutes they were off. Sherlock's feelings, as he got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. He could not think the Watsons had acted quite well by him, in so readily giving up their engagement, without sending him any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what he had heard of the prodigious accumulation of mud in the course of that hour, he could not from his own observation help thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel himself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as his fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console him for almost anything. 

 

They passed briskly down Pulteney Street without the exchange of many words. Moriarty talked to his horse, and Sherlock meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Watsons and trap-doors. 

 

As they entered Argyle Street, however, he was roused by this address from his companion, "Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

 

"Who? Where?”

 

"On the right-hand pavement — she must be almost out of sight now." 

 

Sherlock looked round and saw Miss Watson leaning on her brother's arm, walking slowly down the street. He saw them both looking back at him. 

 

"Stop, stop, Mr. Moriarty," he impatiently cried; "it is Miss Watson; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them." 

 

But to what purpose did he speak? Moriarty only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Watsons, who had soon ceased to look after him, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment he was himself whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, Sherlock entreated him to stop. 

 

"Pray, pray stop, Mr. Moriarty. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Captain Watson and his sister." 

 

But Mr. Moriarty only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Sherlock, angry and vexed as he was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit. His reproaches, however, were not spared. 

 

"How could you deceive me so, Mr. Moriarty? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?" 

 

Moriarty defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Watson himself.

 

Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Sherlock's complaisance was no longer what it had been in their former airing. He listened reluctantly, and his replies were short. 

 

Blaize Castle remained his only comfort; towards that, Sherlock still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the Watsons, he would willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply — the happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted — the happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. 

 

In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Mycroft, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Mycroft said, "We had better go back, Moriarty; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round.”

 

"It is all one to me," replied Moriarty rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

 

"If your brother had not got such a damned slow beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded nag's pace. Mycroft is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own.”

 

"No, he is not," said Sherlock warmly, "for I am sure he could not afford it.”

 

"And why cannot he afford it?”

 

"Because he has not money enough.”

 

"And whose fault is that?”

 

"Nobody's, that I know of." 

 

Moriarty then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a damnable thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Sherlock did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for his first disappointment, he was less and less disposed either to be agreeable himself or to find his companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without him speaking another word.

 

As he entered the house, the footman told him that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for him a few minutes after his setting off; that, when he told them Mr. Holmes was gone out with Mr. Moriarty, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. 

 

Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Sherlock walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them he was met by Mrs. Hudson, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”

 

And now I may dismiss my hero to the sleepless bed, which is the true hero's portion; to a pillow strewn with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may he think himself, if he get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, poor, poor Sherlock. Whatever will become of him?


	12. Being the Twelfth Chapter

 

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock the next morning, "will there be any harm in my calling on the Watsons today? I shall not be easy till I have explained everything.”

 

"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white shirt; Miss Watson always wears white.”

 

Sherlock cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that he might inform himself of General Watson's lodgings, for though he believed they were in Milsom Street, he was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Hudson's wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street he was directed, and having made himself perfect in the number, hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay his visit, explain his conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning away his eyes, that he might not be obliged to see his beloved Irene and her dear family, who, he had reason to believe, were in a shop nearby. 

 

Sherlock reached the house without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for Captain and Miss Watson. The man said Captain Watson was not within. He believed Miss Watson to be at home, but was not quite certain. Would he be pleased to send up his name? Sherlock gave his card. 

 

In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for Miss Watson had walked out. Sherlock, with a blush of mortification, left the house. He felt almost persuaded that Miss Watson was at home, and too much offended to admit him; and as he retired down the street, could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. 

 

At the bottom of the street, however, Sherlock looked back again, and then, not at a window, but issuing from the door, he saw Miss Watson herself. She was followed by a gentleman, whom Sherlock believed to be her father, and they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. 

 

Sherlock, in deep mortification, proceeded on his way. He could almost be angry himself at such angry incivility; but he checked the resentful sensation; he remembered his own ignorance. He knew not how such an offence as his might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make him amenable.

 

Dejected and humbled, he had even some thoughts of not going with the others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they were not of long continuance, for he soon recollected, in the first place, that he was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the second, that it was a play he wanted very much to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went; no Watsons appeared to plague or please him; he feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which he knew, on Irene's authority, rendered everything else of the kind "quite unsupportable." 

 

Sherlock was not deceived in his own expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended his care that no one, observing him during the first four acts, would have supposed he had any wretchedness about him. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Captain John Watson and his father, joining a party in the opposite box, recalled him to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite genuine merriment — no longer keep his whole attention. Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space of two entire scenes, did he thus watch John Watson, without being once able to catch his eye. 

 

No longer could Captain Watson be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards Sherlock, and he bowed — but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.

 

Sherlock was restlessly miserable; he could almost have run ‘round to the box in which Captain Watson sat and forced him to hear his explanation. Feelings rather more natural than heroic possessed him: instead of considering his own dignity injured by this ready condemnation — instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to show his resentment towards anyone who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else — Sherlock took to himself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.

 

The play concluded — the curtain fell — John Watson was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, and perhaps he might be now coming ‘round to their box. Sherlock was right; in a few minutes Captain Watson appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with calm politeness to Mrs. Hudson and her young friend. 

 

Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter: "Oh! Captain Watson,” Sherlock cried, “I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Hudson? Did not they tell me that Captain Watson and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

"My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Hudson's reply.

 

Sherlock’s assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into Captain Watson’s countenance, and he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: "We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose.”

 

"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Moriarty so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Hudson, did not — Oh! You were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Moriarty would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.”

 

Is there a John in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration? Captain John Watson at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and dependence on Sherlock's honour. 

 

"Oh! Do not say Miss Watson was not angry," cried Sherlock, "because I know she was; for she would not see me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”

 

"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Harriet, and she has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than that my father — they were just preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off — made a point of her being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her apology as soon as possible.”

 

Sherlock's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the gentleman: "But, Captain Watson, why were you less generous than your sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?”

 

"Me! I take offence?”

 

"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were angry.”

 

"I be angry? I could have no right.”

 

"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face." 

 

Captain Watson replied by asking Sherlock to make room for him, and sitting down, and talking of the play. He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for Sherlock to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, Sherlock was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the world.

 

While he and Captain Watson had been talking to each other, Sherlock had observed with some surprise that James Moriarty, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Watson; and he felt something more than surprise when he thought he could perceive himself the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say of him? He feared General Watson did not like his appearance: he found it was implied in his preventing him admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes. 

 

"How came Mr. Moriarty to know your father?" was his anxious inquiry, as he pointed them out to his companion. 

 

Captain Watson knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military man, had a very large acquaintance. 

 

When the entertainment was over, Moriarty came to assist them in getting out. Sherlock was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby for a carriage, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled from Sherlock’s heart almost to the tip of his tongue, by asking, in a consequential manner, whether he had seen him talking with General Watson: "He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active — looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”

 

"But how came you to know him?”

 

"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know.  A very fine fellow; as rich as Croesus. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you the finest young man in Bath.”

 

"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”

 

"And what do you think I said?" — lowering his voice — "well done, general, said I; I am quite of your mind.”

 

Here Sherlock, who was much less gratified by Moriarty’s admiration than by General Watson's, was not sorry to be called away by Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty, however, would see him to his carriage, and, till he entered it, continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of Sherlock’s entreating him to have done.

 

That General Watson, instead of disliking, should admire him, was very delightful; and Sherlock joyfully thought that there was not one of the family whom he need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much more, for him than could have been expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kind comments and kudos. :)


	13. Being the Thirteenth Chapter

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated, and the pangs of Sunday, only, now remain to be described, and close the week. 

 

The Blaize Castle scheme had only been deferred, not relinquished, and on the afternoon's Crescent stroll of this day, it was brought forward again. In a private consultation between Irene and Mycroft, the former of whom had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time. 

 

The affair thus determined, and Moriarty's approbation secured, Sherlock only remained to be apprised of it. He had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Watson. In that interval the plan was completed, and as soon as he came again, his agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Irene, Sherlock looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept him from joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for him to accompany them now. He had that moment settled with Miss Watson to take their proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and he would not, upon any account, retract. 

 

But that he must and should retract was instantly the eager cry of both the Moriartys; they must go to Blaize Castle tomorrow, they would not go without him, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. 

 

Sherlock was distressed, but not subdued.  "Do not urge me, Irene. I am engaged to walk with Miss Watson. I cannot go." 

 

This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed him again; he must go, he should go, and they would not hear of a refusal. 

 

"It would be so easy to tell Miss Watson that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday.”

 

"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior engagement." 

 

But Irene became only more and more urgent, calling on Sherlock in the most affectionate manner, addressing him by the most endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Sherlock would not seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved him so dearly. She knew her beloved Sherlock to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those he loved. But all in vain; Sherlock felt himself to be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to influence him. 

 

Irene then tried another method. She reproached him with having more affection for Miss Watson, though he had known her so little a while, than for his best and oldest friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. 

 

"I cannot help being jealous, Sherlock, when I see myself slighted for others — I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by Miss Watson — though she may be the most beautiful creature ever to grace my notice — does cut me to the quick, I own. You seem determined to possess both Captain Watson and his sister as well; your obsession with them swallows up everything else.”

 

Sherlock thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose his feelings to the notice of others? Irene appeared to him ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed his mind, though he said nothing. 

 

Irene, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Mycroft, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Sherlock. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend — I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.”

 

This was the first time of his brother's openly siding against him, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, Sherlock proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, he could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. 

 

But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; that could not be, for Moriarty did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday. 

 

Sherlock was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Irene, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Sherlock does not go, I shall not.”

 

"Sherlock, you must go," said Mycroft.

 

"But why cannot Mr. Moriarty drive someone else? I dare say you could find someone who would like to go.”

 

“No," cried Moriarty, "if you do not go, damn me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you.”

 

"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." 

 

But Sherlock’s words were lost on Moriarty, who had turned abruptly away.

 

The three others still continued together, walking in a manner most uncomfortable to poor Sherlock; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes he was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and his arm was still linked within Irene's, though their hearts were at war. At one moment he was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady.

 

"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Sherlock," said Mycroft; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered child.”

 

"I hope I am not less kind now," he replied, very feelingly; "but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”

 

"I suspect," said Irene, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle.”

 

Sherlock's heart swelled; he drew away his arm, and Irene made no opposition. 

 

Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Moriarty, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Watson, and made your excuses.”

 

"You have not!" cried Sherlock.

 

"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Blaize Castle with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine — hey?”

 

Irene's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Sherlock, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party.”

 

"This will not do," said Sherlock; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Watson directly and set her right.”

 

Irene, however, caught hold of one hand, Moriarty of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even Mycroft was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Watson herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection.

 

"I do not care. Mr. Moriarty had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Watson myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Moriarty has — He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Moriarty; Irene, do not hold me.”

 

Moriarty told him it would be in vain to go after Miss Watson; she and her brother were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.

 

"Then I will go after them," said Sherlock; "wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And with these words he broke away and hurried off. 

 

Moriarty would have darted after him, but Mycroft withheld him. "Let him go, let him go, if he will go.”

 

"He is as obstinate as — " Moriarty never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one.

 

Away walked Sherlock in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit him, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As he walked, he reflected on what had passed. It was painful to him to disappoint and displease them, but he could not repent his resistance. Setting his own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in his engagement to Captain and Miss Watson, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. 

 

He had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, he had not consulted merely his own gratification; that might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, he had attended to what was due to others, and to his own character in their opinion. His conviction of being right, however, was not enough to restore his composure; till he had spoken to Miss Watson he could not be at ease; and quickening his pace when he got clear of the Crescent, he almost ran over the remaining ground till he gained the top of Milsom Street. 

 

So rapid had been his movements, that in spite of the Watsons' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings as he came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at the open door, Sherlock used only the ceremony of saying that he must speak with Miss Watson that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before him, which happened to be the right, he immediately found himself in the drawing-room with General Watson, his son, and daughter. 

 

Sherlock’s explanation, defective only in being — from his irritation of nerves and shortness of breath — no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am come in a great hurry — It was all a mistake — I never promised to go — I told them from the first I could not go. — I ran away in a great hurry to explain it. — I did not care what you thought of me. — I would not stay for the servant.”

 

The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle. Sherlock found that James Moriarty had given the message; and Miss Watson had no scruple in owning herself greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in resentment, Sherlock, though he instinctively addressed himself as much to one as to the other in his vindication, had no means of knowing. Whatever might have been felt before his arrival, his eager declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as he could desire.

 

The affair thus happily settled, he was introduced by Miss Watson to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous politeness as recalled Moriarty's information to his mind, and made him think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of Sherlock’s extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the servant whose neglect had reduced him to open the door of the apartment himself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquiring into the matter." And if Sherlock had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of his master forever, if not his place, by his rapidity.

 

After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, Sherlock rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably surprised by General Watson's asking him if he would do his children the honour of dining and spending the rest of the day with them. Captain and Miss Watson added their own wishes. Sherlock was greatly obliged; but it was quite out of his power. Mrs. Hudson would expect him back every moment. The general declared he could say no more; the claims of Mrs. Hudson were not to be superseded; but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, she would not refuse to spare him to his friends. 

 

The general himself attended Sherlock to the street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of his walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of his dancing, and making him one of the most graceful bows he had ever beheld, when they parted. Sherlock, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney Street, walking, as he concluded, with great elasticity, though he had never thought of it before. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please join me again next week, when Sherlock will finally take his long-awaited walk with Captain and Miss Watson. :)


	14. Being the Fourteenth Chapter

The next morning was fair, and Sherlock almost expected another attack from the Moriartys and Mycroft. With Mrs. Hudson to support him, he felt no dread of the event; but he would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. 

 

The Watsons called for him at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my hero was most unnaturally able to fulfil his engagement. This long-awaited excursion provided the perfect opportunity for increasing their intimacy, and losing the formality of addressing one another by their surnames. Thus comfortable together, in perfect accord, they determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.

 

"I never look at it," said Sherlock, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France.”

 

"You have been abroad then?" said John, a little surprised.

 

"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in _The Mysteries of Udolpho_. But you never read novels, I dare say?”

 

"Why not?”

 

“I have heard that officers do not read such books.”

 

"The person, whether officer, gentleman, or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ , when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days — my hair standing on end the whole time.”

 

"Yes," added Harriet, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to wait till you had finished it.”

 

"Thank you, Harriet — a most honourable testimony. You see, Sherlock, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”

 

"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking _Udolpho_ myself. But I really thought officers despised novels amazingly.”

 

"It may well suggest amazement if they do — for they read as many as anyone else. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far behind me as — what shall I say? — I want an appropriate simile — as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little boy minding your parents at home!”

 

"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think _Udolpho_ the nicest book in the world?”

 

"The nicest — by which I suppose you mean the most horrid. You are fond of that kind of reading?”

 

"To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”

 

“Indeed!"

 

"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?”

 

"Yes, I am fond of history,” said John.

 

"I wish I were, too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all — it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs — the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.”

 

"Historians, you think," said Harriet, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history — and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made.”

 

"You are fond of history!” said Sherlock, with some surprise. “And so are Mrs. Hudson and my father; and my brother does not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. But still, I prefer my novels.” 

 

Thus ended the topic of books, and the Watsons were soon engaged in another on which Sherlock had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and deciding on its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Sherlock was quite lost. He knew nothing of drawing, and he listened to them with an attention which brought him little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to him.

 

Sherlock was heartily ashamed of his ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A handsome young man especially, if he have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as he can.

 

In the present instance, Sherlock confessed and lamented his want of knowledge, and declared that he would give anything in the world to be able to draw. A lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which John’s instructions were so clear that Sherlock soon began to see beauty in everything around him.

 

The young man’s attention was so earnest that John became perfectly satisfied of Sherlock’s having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances — side-screens and perspectives — lights and shades; and Sherlock was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, he voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. 

 

Delighted with Sherlock’s progress, and fearful of wearying him with too much talk of art, John suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands, and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. 

 

The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Sherlock, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.”

 

Harriet, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?”

 

"That I do not know. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”

 

"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?”

 

"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind.”

 

"You speak with astonishing composure!” cried Harriet. “But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect.”

 

"Government," said John, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much.”

 

His sister stared at him in shock. “Sherlock,” she cried, “do not mind what my brother says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."

 

"Riot! What riot?”

 

John laughed. "My dear Harriet, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Sherlock has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern — do you understand? 

 

“And you, Sherlock — my foolish sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London — and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers (the hopes of the nation) called up to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain John Watson, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. She has allowed the fears of a sister to run away with her; but she is by no means a simpleton in general.”

 

Sherlock looked grave. 

 

"And now, John," said Harriet, "that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Sherlock understand yourself — unless you mean to have him think you intolerably rude to your sister. He is not used to your odd ways.”

 

"I shall be most happy to make him better acquainted with them.”

 

"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”

 

"What am I to do?”

 

"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before him. Tell him that you think very highly of my understanding.”

 

“Sherlock, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world — especially of those — whoever they may be — with whom I happen to be in company.”

 

"That is not enough. Be more serious.”

 

“Sherlock, no one can think more highly of my sister’s understanding than I do. In my opinion, nature has given her so much that she never finds it necessary to use more than half.”

 

"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Sherlock. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unkind word to me.”

 

It was no effort to Sherlock to believe that John Watson could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just: and what Sherlock did not understand, he was almost as ready to admire as what he did. 

 

The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful, too; his friends attended him into the house, and Miss Harriet Watson, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Hudson as to Sherlock, petitioned for the pleasure of his company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Hudson's side, and the only difficulty on Sherlock's was in concealing the excess of his pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, now we're getting somewhere: Sherlock and John are finally on a first-name basis; who knows what shocking increase in intimacy will occur next... ;)


	15. Being the Fifteenth Chapter

Early the next day, a note from Irene, speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance, hastened Sherlock, in the happiest state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. As soon as Sherlock entered the parlor, Irene approached him with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. 

 

Irene, embracing Sherlock, thus began: "Yes, my dear Sherlock, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.”

 

Sherlock replied only by a look of wondering innocence.

 

"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," continued the other, "compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Sherlock, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!”

 

Sherlock's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into his mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, he cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Irene, what do you mean? Can you — can you really be trying to tell me that you are in love with Mycroft?”

 

This bold deduction, however, he soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which he was accused of having continually watched in Irene's every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to Mycroft. 

 

Never had Sherlock listened to anything so full of interest and wonder. His brother and his friend engaged! Delighting, however, as Sherlock sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, he could not quite bring himself to believe it.

 

“My dear Irene,” said he, “I would love nothing better than to call you sister. But can this be so? Did not you tell me yourself that you prefer the company of ladies?”

 

Irene coloured, but laughed this off with studied unconcern. “Oh, as to that, one says all manner of foolish things in idle conversation. It signifies nothing. No, my dearest Sherlock, your brother is so like your own, sweet self, that I quite dote on him.”

 

Sherlock could not help saying, in frank disbelief, “Mycroft? Like me?”

 

“Oh, yes. Well, excepting in age and looks, disposition and manner. But in all other respects the resemblance is striking.”

 

Sherlock knew not how to respond to such a statement; but Irene, not requiring his response, continued on:

 

“To be connected forever with you and all your family would bring me such joy. And James, you know, has so assiduously promoted the match. I must own that it is no small inducement to be able to please so kind and attentive a brother.”

 

This last had all the ring of truth, and led Sherlock to ponder how much influence James Moriarty had over his sister, and why he was choosing to exercise it in this manner. Could it simply be that his friendship with Mycroft was causing him to wish for a deeper connection between the two families? Certainly, Sherlock would rejoice in a union that would give his own friendship with Irene a more permanent standing. Perhaps this was all that Moriarty desired; and yet, it was difficult for Sherlock to feel entirely easy on the subject, and to banish a little niggling fear that something untoward was afoot. 

 

Irene now shared the source of her current agitation: Mycroft was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent from Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock endeavoured to persuade her, as he was himself persuaded, that his father and mother would never oppose their son's wishes. 

 

"It is impossible," said he, "for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting immediately.”

 

"Mycroft says exactly the same," replied Irene; "and yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”

 

Her concern seemed, to Sherlock, wholly unwarranted.

 

"Indeed, Irene, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be nothing to signify.”

 

"Oh! My sweet Sherlock, in your generous heart I know it would signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”

 

"I am sure they will consent," said Sherlock. "I am sure they will be delighted with you.”

 

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable for the day; and in schemes of upcoming happiness the hours flew along. Mrs. Moriarty and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Holmes’ consent, to consider Irene's engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was with his friend again the next day, endeavouring to support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable expectation drew near, Irene became more and more desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real distress. 

 

But when it did come, where could distress be found? "I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to forward my happiness," were the first three lines, and in one moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over Irene's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits became almost too high for control, and she called herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.

 

Mrs. Moriarty, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was "dear James" and "dear Sherlock" at every word; and two "dears" at once before the name of Irene were not more than that beloved child had now well earned. 

 

James himself was no skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on Mr. Holmes the high commendation of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.

 

The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was deferred till Mycroft could write again. But for particulars Irene could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Holmes' promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.

 

When the contents of the letter were ascertained, James Moriarty, who had only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set off. "Well, Mr. Holmes," said he, on finding Sherlock alone in the parlour, "I am come to bid you good-bye." 

 

Sherlock wished him a good journey. 

 

Without appearing to hear him, Moriarty walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied. After a minute's silence, he burst out with, "A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Mycroft’s and Irene's. What do you think of it, Mr. Holmes? I say it is no bad notion.”

 

"I am sure I think it a very good one.”

 

"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to matrimony. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?' I say, you will come to Irene's wedding, I hope.”

 

"Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”

 

"And then you know" — twisting himself about and forcing a foolish laugh — "I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old song.”

 

"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Watson today, and must now be going home.”

 

"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, but a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”

 

Finding that Moriarty waited for an answer, Sherlock replied, “Well, the sooner you go, the sooner I suppose you will be back.”

 

"That is kind of you — kind and good-natured. I shall not forget it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you have such — upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”

 

“Oh dear! Perhaps there is no one like me, but I dare say there are a great many people a great deal better. I know you must be off, now. Good morning to you.”

 

"But I say, Mr. Holmes, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable.”

 

“I’m sure my father and mother will be very glad to see you.”

 

"And I hope — I hope, Mr. Holmes, you will not be sorry to see me.”

 

"There are very few people I am sorry to see. Company is generally cheerful.”

 

"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Mr. Holmes, you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.”

 

"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of.”

 

"By Jove, my notion of things is simple enough. Let me only have the young man I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own; and if he had not a penny, why, so much the better.”

 

"Very true. To marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day." 

 

And away Sherlock went. It was not in the power of all Moriarty’s gallantry to detain him longer. With such news to communicate, his departure was not to be delayed any further, and he hurried away, leaving Moriarty to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and Sherlock’s presumed encouragement.

 

The agitation which Sherlock had himself experienced on first learning of his brother's engagement made him expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mrs. Hudson, by the communication of the wonderful event. How great was his disappointment! The important affair, which many words of preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by that astute lady ever since his brother's arrival; and all that she felt on the occasion was comprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark in favour of Irene's beauty and her great good luck. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what tangled webs they weave, those Moriartys... What could they possibly be up to?


	16. Being the Sixteenth Chapter

Sherlock's expectations of pleasure from his dinner engagement in Milsom Street were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though he was most politely received by General Watson, and kindly welcomed by his daughter, though John was with them, and no one else of the party, he found, on his return, that he had gone to his appointment preparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding himself improved in acquaintance with Harriet, from the intercourse of the day, he seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead of seeing John to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said so little; and, in spite of their father's great civilities to Sherlock — in spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments — it had been a release to get away from him. 

 

It puzzled Sherlock to account for all this. It could not be General Watson's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and altogether very charming, did not admit of a doubt, for he was a military man, and handsome, and John's father. He could not be accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for Sherlock’s want of enjoyment in his company. The former he hoped might have been accidental, and the latter he could only attribute to his own lack of experience in society. 

 

Irene, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride!” 

 

She had long suspected the family to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss Watson's she had never heard of in her life! “To behave to a guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to you!”

 

"But it was not so bad as that, Irene; there was no superciliousness; she was very civil.”

 

"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly spoke once to you the whole day?”

 

"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”

 

"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Sherlock; indeed he is unworthy of you.”

 

“Unworthy? Impossible! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”

 

"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe James has the most constant heart.”

 

"But as for General Watson, I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy.”

 

"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. James thinks very well of him, and James' judgment — ”

 

"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms.”

 

"And must I go? I had been so looking forward to being introduced to Miss Watson, but now I quite dread it.”

 

"Do not you intend to go? I thought it was all settled.”

 

"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question.”

 

Irene's opinion of the Watsons did not influence her friend; he was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or sister; and he did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening rewarded his confidence; he was met by one with the same kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Harriet took pains to be near him, and John asked him to dance.

 

Sherlock enjoyed his usual happiness with John, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so himself. 

 

At the end of the first dance, Harriet came towards them, and, much to Sherlock's dissatisfaction, pulled her brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though Sherlock’s delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, he could not have his partner conveyed from his sight without very uneasy sensations. His suspense was of full five minutes' duration; and he was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by John's requesting to know if he thought his friend, Miss Moriarty, would have any objection to dancing, as his sister would be most happy to be introduced to her. 

 

Sherlock, without hesitation, replied that he was very sure Miss Moriarty did not mean to dance at all. Harriet immediately walked away.

 

“I hope your sister does not mind,” said Sherlock. “I suppose she saw Irene sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner.”

 

John smiled, and said, "Your attributing my sister's wish of dancing with Miss Moriarty to good nature alone convinces me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”

 

Sherlock blushed and disclaimed. There was a something, however, in Captain Watson’s words which occupied his mind so much that as they danced together he found himself almost forgetting where he was; till, roused by the voice of Irene, he looked up and saw her with Harriet, preparing to give them hands across.

 

Irene shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Sherlock's comprehension, he spoke his astonishment in very plain terms to his partner.

 

"I cannot think how it could happen! Irene was so determined not to dance.”

 

"And did Irene never change her mind before?”

 

"Oh! But your sister! After what I told her, how could she think of going to ask her?”

 

“I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for my sister, her conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed her perfectly equal to. The beauty of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness in wishing not to dance, you know, could only be understood by yourself.”

 

"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Irene is very firm in general.”

 

"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and, without reference to my sister, I really think Miss Moriarty has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”

 

The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Irene thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at your surprise; I would have given the world to sit still.”

 

"Then why did not you?”

 

"Oh! My dear! Once Mrs. Hudson introduced us, I refused Miss Watson’s invitation to dance as long as I possibly could, but she would take no denial. You have no idea how she pressed me. I begged her to excuse me, and get some other partner — but no, not she; after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room she could bear to think of; and it was not that she wanted merely to dance, she wanted to be with me.”

 

“Did she, indeed?” 

 

“Oh, yes! Such nonsense! I told her she had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so — and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hudson, after taking pains to introduce her, might take it ill if I did not. And your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. But though Miss Watson is such a remarkably beautiful young lady, I am so glad it is over!”

 

When Sherlock and Irene next met, they had an even more interesting subject to discuss. Mycroft Holmes' second letter was then received, and the kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Holmes was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old enough to take it. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.

 

Mycroft expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could marry being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne by him without discontent. Sherlock, whose expectations had been as unfixed as his ideas of his father's income, and whose judgment in this matter was entirely led by his brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily congratulated Irene on having everything so pleasantly settled.

 

"It is very charming indeed," said Irene, with a grave face. 

 

"Mr. Holmes has behaved vastly handsome indeed," said the gentle Mrs. Moriarty, looking anxiously at her daughter. "I only wish I could do as much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Irene, are so moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear.”

 

"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Mycroft, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.”

 

"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Holmes sees you, my dear child — but do not let us distress our dear Sherlock by talking of such things. Mr. Holmes has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man.”

 

"Nobody can think better of Mr. Holmes than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money.”

 

Sherlock was hurt by these insinuations. "I am very sure," said he, "that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”

 

Irene recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Sherlock, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! My Sherlock, you have found me out. There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before we can wed.”

 

"Yes, yes, my darling Irene," said Mrs. Moriarty, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection.”

 

Sherlock's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. He endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Irene's regret; and when he saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that he had for a minute thought otherwise. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Harriet have met at last. I wonder what may come of this dance...


	17. Being the Seventeenth Chapter

Mrs. Hudson had now entered on the sixth week of her stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Sherlock listened with a beating heart. To have his acquaintance with the Watsons end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. His whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. 

 

What this additional fortnight was to produce to him beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Captain Watson made but a small part of Sherlock's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since Mycroft's engagement had taught him what could be done, he had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with John for the present bounded his views. The present was now comprised in another three weeks, and his happiness being certain for that period, the rest of his life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. 

 

In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, Sherlock visited Captain and Miss Watson, and poured forth his joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had he expressed his delight in Mrs. Hudson's lengthened stay than Harriet told him of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. 

 

Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Sherlock's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern he echoed Harriet's concluding words, "By the end of another week!”

 

"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home.”

 

"I am very sorry for it," said Sherlock dejectedly; "if I had known this before — ”

 

"Perhaps," said John, in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good — it would make me very happy if — ”

 

The entrance of his father put a stop to the civility, which Sherlock was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. 

 

After addressing Sherlock with his usual politeness, General Watson turned to his children and said, "Well, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?”

 

"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in,” said John.

 

"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My children, Mr. Holmes," he continued, without leaving either of them time to speak, "have been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as they have perhaps told you, on Saturday. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friends with your company at Southanger Abbey? 

 

“I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours — but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Southanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”

 

Southanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Sherlock's feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. His grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have his company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and his acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation, was eagerly given. 

 

"I will write home directly," said he, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not — ”

 

General Watson was not less sanguine, having already waited on Mrs. Hudson, and obtained her sanction of his wishes. "Since she can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world.”

 

The circumstances of the morning had led Sherlock's feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with John at his heart, and Southanger Abbey on his lips, he hurried home to write a letter to his parents. 

 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, relying on the discretion of Mrs. Hudson, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under her eye, and sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to his visit at Southanger Abbey. This indulgence, though not more than Sherlock had hoped for, completed his conviction of being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. 

 

Everything seemed to cooperate for his advantage. By the kindness of his first friend, Mrs. Hudson, he had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met him. His feelings, his preferences, had each known the happiness of a return. Wherever he felt attachment, he had been able to create it. The affection of Irene was to be secured to him in a sister. The Watsons — they, by whom, above all, he desired to be favourably thought of — outstripped even his wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy was to be continued. Sherlock was to be their chosen visitor, he was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society he mostly prized — and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! 

 

Sherlock’s passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to his passion for Captain Watson — and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which John’s image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against it of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Southanger turned up an abbey, and Sherlock was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within his daily reach, and he could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.

 

It was remarkable that his friends should seem so little elated by the possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.

 

Many were the inquiries Sherlock was eager to make of the Watsons; but so active were his thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, he was hardly more assured than before of Southanger Abbey having been a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Watsons on its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the present dwelling, although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak. For more particular intelligence, he looked forward to soon having the awe-inspiring experience of dwelling within the abbey himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Your kind comments and kudos always make me smile. :)


	18. Being the Eighteenth Chapter

With a mind thus full of happiness, Sherlock was hardly aware that two or three days had passed away, without his seeing Irene for more than a few minutes together. He began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for her conversation, as he walked along the pump-room one morning, by Mrs. Hudson's side, without anything to say or to hear; and scarcely had he felt a five minutes' longing of friendship, before the object of it appeared, and inviting him to a secret conference, led the way to a seat. 

 

"This is my favourite place," said she as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of everybody entering at either; "it is so out of the way.”

 

Sherlock, observing that Irene's eyes were continually bent towards one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how often he had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, "Do not be uneasy, Irene, Mycroft will soon be here.”

 

"Psha! My dear creature," she replied, "do not think me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Southanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of it.”

 

"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you looking for?”

 

"I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent creature in the world. Miss Watson says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp.”

 

"But I thought, Irene, you had something in particular to tell me?”

 

"Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter from James; you can guess the contents.”

 

"No, indeed, I cannot.”

 

"My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with you.”

 

"With me, dear Irene?”

 

"Nay, my sweetest Sherlock, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and all that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained! It is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect ignorance.”

 

Sherlock, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed his astonishment at such a charge, protesting his innocence of every thought of Mr. Moriarty's being in love with him, and the consequent impossibility of his having ever intended to encourage him. 

 

"As to any attentions on his side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment — except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for me — but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon — that is — I do not know what I ought to say — but make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Irene, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one man more than another — he is not the person." 

 

Irene was silent. 

 

"My dear friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be family.”

 

"Yes, yes" (with a blush), "there are more ways than one of our being family. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Sherlock, the case seems to be that you are determined against poor James — is not it so?”

 

"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant to encourage it.”

 

"Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. James desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays; and after all that romantics may say, there is no doing without money. I only wonder James could think of it; he could not have received my last letter.”

 

"You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong? You are convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me till this moment?”

 

"Oh! As to that," answered Irene laughingly, "I do not pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”

 

"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same. You are describing what never happened.”

 

"My dearest Sherlock," continued the other without at all listening to him, "I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who, perhaps, after all, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. 

 

“But, above all things, my dear Sherlock, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Miss Watson says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own affections, and I believe she is very right. Ah! Here she comes; never mind, she will not see us, I am sure.”

 

Sherlock, looking up, perceived Harriet; and Irene, earnestly fixing her eye on her as she spoke, soon caught her notice. 

 

Harriet approached immediately, and took the seat next to Irene. Her first address made Sherlock start. Though spoken low, he could distinguish, “I see that you have been waiting for me.”

 

"Psha, nonsense!" was Irene's answer in the same half whisper. "Why do you put such things into my head? My spirit, you know, is pretty independent.”

 

"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”

 

Mrs. Hudson just then coming up to propose their returning home, Sherlock joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Irene still sitting with Harriet. With much uneasiness did he thus leave them. It seemed to him that Harriet was falling in love with Irene, and Irene unconsciously encouraging her.

 

Unconsciously it must be, for Irene's attachment to Mycroft was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their conversation her manner had been odd. He wished Irene had talked more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked so well pleased at the sight of Miss Watson. 

 

How strange that Irene should not perceive Harriet’s admiration! Sherlock longed to give her a hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for her and his brother. 

 

The compliment of James Moriarty's affection did not make amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister. Sherlock was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere; for he had not forgotten that Mr. Moriarty could mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of his encouragement convinced Sherlock that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, he gained but little; his chief profit was in wonder. That Mr. James Moriarty should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love with him was a matter of lively astonishment. Irene talked of his attentions; Sherlock had never been sensible of any; but Irene had said many things which he hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this he was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort. 

 

…

 

A few days passed away, and Sherlock, though not allowing himself to suspect his friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of his observations was not agreeable. Irene seemed an altered creature. 

 

When he saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Sherlock had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Sherlock saw her in public, admitting Harriet's attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing her almost an equal share with Mycroft in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. 

 

What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what his friend could be at, was beyond his comprehension. Irene could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of willful thoughtlessness which Sherlock could not but resent. 

 

Mycroft was the sufferer. Sherlock saw him grave and uneasy; and however little closeness the two brothers shared, Sherlock could not but feel uneasy on his behalf. 

 

For poor Harriet, too, he was greatly concerned. He thought with sincere compassion of her approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what he had believed himself to overhear in the pump-room, her behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Irene's engagement that Sherlock could not, upon reflection, imagine her aware of it. She might be jealous of Mycroft as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in his misapprehension. 

 

Sherlock wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Irene of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against him. If able to suggest a hint, Irene could never understand it. He found himself equally unable to apprise Harriet of Irene’s engagement to Mycroft. In this distress, the intended departure of the Watson family became his chief consolation; their journey to Southanger Abbey was to take place within a few days, and this removal should restore peace to every heart. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! Will the romantic maneuverings of the Moriartys ever cease? Will Sherlock ever find himself at the titular home of the Watsons? Tune in next Sunday to find out. :)


	19. Being the Nineteenth Chapter

Mrs. Hudson was sorry to lose her young friend, in the promotion of whose enjoyment her own had been gently increased. His happiness in going with the Watsons, however, prevented her wishing it otherwise; and, as she was to remain only one more week in Bath herself, Sherlock’s quitting her now would not long be felt. She attended him to Milsom Street, where he was to breakfast, and saw him seated with the kindest welcome among his new friends; but so great was Sherlock’s agitation in finding himself as one of the family, and so fearful was he of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, he could almost have wished to return with her to Pulteney Street.

 

John's smile soon did away some of Sherlock’s unpleasant feelings; but still he was far from being at ease; nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure him. Nay, perverse as it seemed, he doubted whether he might not have felt less, had he been less attended to. General Watson’s anxiety for Sherlock’s comfort — his continual solicitations that he would eat, and his often-expressed fears of his seeing nothing to his taste — though never in his life before had he beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table — made it impossible for him to forget for a moment that he was a visitor. He felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it. 

 

Sherlock’s tranquillity was not improved by the general's impatience for the appearance of his daughter, nor by the displeasure he expressed at her laziness when Harriet at last came down. Sherlock was quite pained by the severity of her father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was his concern increased when he found himself the principal cause of the lecture, and that her tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to him. This was placing him in a very uncomfortable situation, and he felt great compassion for Harriet. She listened to her father in silence, and attempted not any defence, which confirmed Sherlock in fearing that the inquietude of her mind, on Irene's account, might, by keeping her long sleepless, have been the real cause of her rising late. 

 

The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the trunks were still being carried down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had so crowded it with parcels that he feared Sherlock would not have room to sit. At last, however, the door of the chaise was closed upon Sherlock, Harriet, and her silent maid, and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Southanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. 

 

Sherlock's spirits revived as they drove from the door; for, with the general now safely in a separate carriage, he felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to him, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, he caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before he expected it. The tediousness of a two hours' wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything to see, next followed — and Sherlock’s admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four, sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General Watson, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Sherlock grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. 

 

At last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Sherlock then surprised by the general's proposal of Sherlock’s taking his place in his son's curricle for the rest of the journey. In the course of a few minutes, he found himself with John in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced him that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and he could not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. 

 

But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; John drove so well — so quietly — without making any disturbance, without parading to him, or swearing at them: so different from the only gentleman-coachman with whom it was in Sherlock’s power to compare him! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. 

 

In addition to every other delight, Sherlock had now that of listening to his own praise; of being thanked for his kindness in thus becoming their visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, John said, was uncomfortably circumstanced — she had no young companion — and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.

 

"But how can that be?" said Sherlock. "Are not you with her?”

 

"Southanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”

 

"How sorry you must be for that!”

 

"I am always sorry to leave Harry.”

 

"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as Southanger Abbey, an ordinary house must be very disagreeable.”

 

John smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.”

 

"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?”

 

"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?”

 

"Oh yes! I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house —  and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens in novels.”

 

"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire — nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young man is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, he is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, he is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber — too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size — its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”

 

"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.”

 

"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off — you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you — and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.”

 

"Oh! Captain Watson, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?”

 

"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains — and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear —  which door, being only secured by massive bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening — and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”

 

"No, indeed; I certainly know what horrors may lay behind a tapestry; I should be much too sensible to do any such thing.”

 

"What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. 

 

“In re-passing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer — but for some time without discovering anything of importance — perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open — a roll of paper appears — you seize it — it contains many sheets of manuscript — you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! Thou, whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall' — when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”

 

"Oh! No, no — do not say so! Well, go on.”

 

But John was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat Sherlock to use his own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes. 

 

Sherlock, recollecting himself, grew ashamed of his eagerness, and began earnestly to assure John that his attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related. Their housekeeper, he was sure, would never put him into such a chamber as John had described! He was not at all afraid.

 

As they drew near the end of their journey, Sherlock’s impatience for a sight of the abbey — for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects very different — returned in full force, and every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massive walls of grey stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building stand, that he found himself passing through the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Southanger, without having discerned even an antique chimney.

 

He knew not that he had any right to be surprised, but there was a something in this mode of approach which he certainly had not expected. To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find himself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of any kind, struck him as odd and inconsistent. He was not long at leisure, however, for such considerations. 

 

A sudden scud of rain, driving full in his face, made it impossible for him to observe anything further, and fixed all his thoughts on the welfare of his new hat; and he was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with John's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where Harriet and the general were waiting to welcome him, without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery to himself, or one moment's suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to him; it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake to his coat, he was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room, and capable of considering where he was.

 

An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But Sherlock doubted, as he looked round the room, whether anything within his observation would have given him the consciousness. The furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where he had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. 

 

The windows, to which he looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less what his fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved — the form of them was Gothic — they might be even casements — but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.

 

The general, perceiving how his eye was employed, began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything, being for daily use, pretended only to comfort; flattering himself, however, that there were some apartments in the abbey not unworthy of Sherlock’s notice — and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation, and Sherlock found himself hurried away by Harriet in such a manner as convinced him that the strictest punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Southanger.

 

Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many landing-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which Sherlock had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Harriet led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope he would find it comfortable, left him with an anxious entreaty that he would make as little alteration as possible in his clothing, and hasten to appear for dinner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Sherlock has finally reached the exciting edifice that gives this story its name. What do you think he will find within? Is Southanger Abbey really filled with mysterious cabinets and secret passages? Or was John just teasing? Is Sherlock going to have an opportunity to put his budding detective skills to work? I'd love it if you'd leave me a comment with your predictions. :)


	20. Being the Twentieth Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained violently. Sherlock, as he crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of awe; and, when he heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that he was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they brought to his recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings had witnessed in the novels he had been reading, and such storms invariably ushered in.

A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Sherlock that his apartment was very unlike the one which John had endeavoured to alarm him by the description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room altogether far from uncheerful. 

 

Sherlock’s heart instantaneously at ease — though his mind, he must own, a trifle disappointed — he resolved to lose no time in particular examination of anything, as he greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay. His coat was thrown off with all possible haste, and he was preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed for his immediate accommodation, when his eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made him start; and, forgetting everything else, he stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed his mind: 

 

_This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back, too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into it — cost me what it may, I will look into it — and directly, too, by daylight. If I wait till evening my candle may go out._

 

He advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Sherlock bent over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. He could not, in whatever direction he took it, believe the last letter to be a W; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not originally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Watson family?

 

Sherlock’s fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, he resolved at all hazards to satisfy himself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for something seemed to resist his efforts, he raised the lid a few inches; but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made him, starting, quit his hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. 

 

This ill-timed intruder was General Watson's valet, sent by his master to be of use to Mr. Holmes; and though Sherlock immediately dismissed him, it recalled him to the sense of what he ought to be doing, and forced him, in spite of his anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in his dressing without further delay. His progress was not quick, for his thoughts and his eyes were still bent on the object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though he dared not waste a moment upon a second attempt, he could not remain many paces from the chest. 

 

At length, however, Sherlock seemed so nearly ready that the impatience of his curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate should be the exertion of his strength, that, unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit he sprang forward, and his confidence did not deceive him. His resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to his astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession!

 

Sherlock was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Harriet, anxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. 

 

"That is a curious old chest, is not it?" said Harriet, as Sherlock hastily closed it and turned away to the glass. "It is impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”

 

Sherlock had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Harriet gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Watson was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered "Dinner to be on table directly!”

 

Sherlock trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble mood, detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he looked at him, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but Sherlock could not at all get over the double distress of having involved Harriet in another lecture and having been a great simpleton himself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the general's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of his own, restored him to peace. 

 

The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on the unpractised eye of Sherlock, who saw little more than its spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, he spoke aloud his admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he supposed, however, that Sherlock “must have been used to much better-sized apartments at Mrs. Hudson’s?"

 

"No, indeed," was Sherlock's honest assurance; "Mrs. Hudson's dining-parlour is not more than half as large. I have never seen so large a room as this in my life.” 

 

The general's good humour increased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be foolish not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mrs. Hudson's house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.

 

The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the occasional absence of General Watson, with much positive cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Sherlock felt the smallest fatigue from his journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and he could think of his friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.

 

The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained violently. Sherlock, as he crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of awe; and, when he heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that he was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they brought to his recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings had witnessed in the novels he had been reading, and such storms invariably ushered in. 

 

Here, however, though he was in an abbey, Sherlock had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken gallants. John had certainly been only in jest in what he had told him that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, he could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to his bedroom as securely as if it had been his own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying his mind, as he proceeded upstairs, Sherlock was enabled, especially on perceiving that John slept only two doors from him, to enter his room with a tolerably stout heart; and his spirits were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. 

 

"How much better is this," said he, as he walked to the fender — "how much better to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor young people have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a tiny ember! How glad I ought to be that Southanger is what it is! I should not regret that it is not like the castle of Udolpho, for I do not know that, on such a night as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing to alarm one.”

 

He looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the divisions of the shutters; and Sherlock stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure himself of its being so. He peeped courageously behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare him, and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as he turned away from this examination, was not without its use; he scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to prepare himself for bed. 

 

He should take his time; he should not hurry himself; he did not care if he were the last person up in the house. He would not make up his fire; that would seem cowardly, as if he wished for the protection of light after he were in bed. The fire therefore died away, and Sherlock, having spent the best part of an hour in his arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, he was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught his notice before. 

 

John's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape Sherlock’s observation at first, immediately rushed across him; and though there could be nothing really in it, this was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! He took his candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as he held his candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key was in the door, and he had a strange fancy to look into it; not, however, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd, after what John had said. In short, he could not sleep till he had examined it. 

 

So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, Sherlock seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted his utmost strength. Surprised, but not discouraged, he tried it another way; a bolt flew, and he believed himself successful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable. 

 

He paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness of his situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in his immediate vicinity. 

 

Again, therefore, Sherlock applied himself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with the determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded to his hand. His heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown open each folding door — the second being secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that his eye could not discern anything unusual — a double range of small drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in all probability a cavity of importance.

 

Sherlock's heart beat quick, but his courage did not fail him. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, his fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness he seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one was anything found. 

 

Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape him, and Sherlock felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and though he had never from the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at his ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while he was about it. 

 

It was some time, however, before he could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was his search; his quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and his feelings at that moment were indescribable. Sherlock’s heart fluttered, his knees trembled, and his cheeks grew pale. He seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while he acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of what John had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before he attempted to rest.

 

The dimness of the light his candle emitted made him turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some hours to burn; and that he might not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, he hastily trimmed the wick. 

 

Alas! It was trimmed and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. 

 

Sherlock, for a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. 

 

A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Sherlock trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on his affrighted ear. 

 

Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood on his forehead, the manuscript fell from his hand, and groping his way to the bed, Sherlock jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the bedclothes. 

 

To close his eyes in sleep that night, he felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm abroad, too, so dreadful! Sherlock had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence. 

 

The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to his lot to discover it! Till Sherlock had made himself master of its contents, he could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun's first rays he was determined to peruse it. 

 

But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. Sherlock shuddered, tossed about in his bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on his startled ear. The very curtains of his bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of his door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than once his blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Sherlock had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided and he unknowingly fell fast asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhh... Spoooky... 
> 
> If, like Sherlock, you enjoy a wee bit of spookiness, you might want to check out the most recent entry in my Bedtime Stories with Sherlock and John series, entitled "Shivers."


	21. Being the Twenty-First Chapter

The housemaid's folding back his window-shutters at eight o'clock the next day was the sound which first roused Sherlock. He opened his eyes (wondering that they could ever have been closed) on objects of cheerfulness; his fire was already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night. 

 

Instantaneously, with the consciousness of existence, returned his recollection of the manuscript; and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away, he eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on his pillow. He now plainly saw that he must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what he had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much less than he had supposed it to be at first.

 

Sherlock’s greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. He started at its import. Could it be possible, or did not his senses play him false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before him! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, he held a washing-bill in his hand. 

 

Sherlock seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced him in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, and shoe-string. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramped line, "To poultice chestnut mare" — a farrier's bill! 

 

Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as he could then suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence he had taken them) which had filled him with expectation and intrigue, and robbed him of half his night's rest! Sherlock felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught him wisdom? A corner of it, catching his eye as he lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against him. 

 

Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of his recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable! Or that Sherlock should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all! How could he have so imposed on himself? 

 

Heaven forbid that Captain Watson should ever know his folly! Although, it was in a great measure John’s own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his description of the horrid adventures that might await Sherlock at Southanger Abbey, he should never have felt the smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of his foolishness, those detestable papers then scattered over the bed, Sherlock rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace him even with himself.

 

Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still something remarkable, for Sherlock could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and he indulged in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of his being himself its fastener, darted into his head, and cost him another blush.

 

He got away as soon as he could from a room in which his conduct produced such unpleasant reflections, and found his way with all speed to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to him the evening before. John was alone in it; and his immediate hope of Sherlock’s having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world would he not have his weakness suspected, and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept him awake a little. 

 

"But we have a charming morning after it," Sherlock added, desiring to get rid of the subject; "and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”

 

"And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”

 

"Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Hudson used to take pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”

 

"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable, as a means of getting one out of doors, and tempting one to more frequent exercise than he might otherwise take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?”

 

"But I do not need any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.”

 

"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young man is a great blessing. Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”

 

Sherlock was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance his composure.

 

The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Sherlock's notice when they were seated at table. The general was enchanted by Sherlock’s approbation of his taste, but informed him that this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting a new one — though not for himself. Sherlock was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him.

 

Shortly after breakfast John left them for Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the breakfast-room, Sherlock walked to a window in the hope of catching another glimpse of his figure. 

 

"This is a somewhat heavy call upon your brother's fortitude," observed the general to Harriet. "Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today.”

 

"Is it a pretty place?" asked Sherlock.

 

"What say you, Harriet? I think it would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect, the walls surrounding which I built myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. Though he will, in time, inherit as considerable a landed property as any private man in the county, I think it right for him to have his own home at present. 

 

“Perhaps it may seem odd, that now he is returned from active duty, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every claim on his time. But I believe it is expedient to give every young man some employment, and so he has charge, for a few days each month, of providing training for the new officers at their quarters near Woodston.”    

 

The imposing effect of this last pronouncement was equal to the general’s wishes. Sherlock’s silence proved it to be unanswerable.

 

Something had been said the evening before of his being shown over the house, and General Watson now offered himself as conductor; and though Sherlock had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for he had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. Sherlock gave his acquiescence.

 

The general then amended his offer. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to make the shrubberies and garden our first object. The weather is at present favourable, and at this time of year the uncertainty is very great of its continuing so. Which would you prefer, Mr. Holmes? I am equally at your service. Which do you think, Harriet, would most accord with your fair friend's wishes? But I think I can discern. Yes, I certainly read in Mr. Holmes’s eyes a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. I shall fetch my hat and attend you in a moment." 

 

He left the room, and Sherlock, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of his unwillingness that the general should be taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing him; but he was stopped by Harriet's saying, with a little confusion, "I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father's account; he always walks out at this time of day.”

 

Sherlock did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was Harriet embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the general's side to show him over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither Sherlock’s parents nor Mrs. Hudson did so. It was certainly very provoking. Sherlock was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the grounds. 

 

If John had been with them, indeed, it would be different! But now Sherlock should not know what was picturesque when he saw it. Such were his thoughts, but he kept them to himself, and put on his hat in patient discontent.

 

Sherlock was struck, however, beyond his expectation, by the grandeur of the abbey, as he saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole building enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March. Sherlock had seen nothing to compare with it; and his feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for any better authority, he boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Southanger had waited unfixed till that hour.

 

The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and General Watson led the way to it across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Sherlock could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all Mrs. Hudson's, as well as his father's, including church-yard and orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the enclosure. The general was flattered by his looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced Sherlock to tell him in words, that he had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before.

 

General Watson then modestly owned that, "Without any ambition of that sort myself — without any solicitude about it —  I do believe them to be unrivalled in the kingdom. If I have a hobby-horse, it is that.”

 

Having taken them into every division, and led them under every wall, till Sherlock was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, the general then expressed his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposing it as no unpleasant extension of their walk. Harriet made as if to turn, but her father stopped her.

 

"Where are you going, Harriet? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Mr. Holmes will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”

 

"This is so favourite a walk of mine," said Harriet, "that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”

 

It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs; and Sherlock, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. The general perceived his inclination, and having again urged the plea of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself, however, from attending them: he would meet them by another course. 

 

General Watson turned away; and Sherlock was shocked to find how much his spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the relief, offered it no injury; and he began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.

 

"I am particularly fond of this spot," said his companion, with a sigh. "It was my mother's favourite walk.”

 

Sherlock had never heard Mrs. Watson mentioned in the family before, and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself directly in his altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with which he waited for something more.

 

"I used to walk here so often with her,” added Harriet, "though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”

 

_And ought it not,_ reflected Sherlock, _to endear it to her husband? Yet the general would not enter it._  

 

Miss Watson continuing silent, he ventured to say, "Her death must have been a great affliction!”

 

"A great and increasing one," replied the other, in a low voice. "I was only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it was." She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great firmness, "I have no sister, you know — and though John — though my brother is very affectionate, and is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”

 

"To be sure you must miss her very much.”

 

"A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”

 

"Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?" — were questions now eagerly poured forth. The first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed by; and Sherlock's interest in the deceased Mrs. Watson augmented with every question, whether answered or not. 

 

Of her unhappiness in marriage, he felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features which put Sherlock in mind of the villain of a novel, and spoke his not having behaved well to his wife.

 

"Her picture, I suppose," blushing at the consummate art of his own question, "hangs in your father's room?”

 

"No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber — where I shall be happy to show it to you; it is very like." 

 

Here was another proof to bolster Sherlock’s deductions. A portrait — very like — of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!

 

Sherlock attempted no longer to hide from himself the nature of the feelings which, in spite of all the general’s attentions, he had previously excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious. Sherlock had often read of such characters, characters which Mrs. Hudson had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary.

 

He had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them directly upon the general; and in spite of all his virtuous indignation, Sherlock found himself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, he soon began to walk with lassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for Sherlock’s health, which seemed to reproach him for his ill opinion, was most urgent for his returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in a quarter of an hour. 

 

Again they parted — but Harriet was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round the abbey till her father’s return. This second instance of General Watson’s anxiety to delay what he so much wished for struck Sherlock as very remarkable. What was he hiding?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think the general might be hiding?


	22. Being the Twenty-Second Chapter

An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character. This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of reproach. At length he appeared; and, whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. 

 

Harriet, understanding in part her friend's curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father being, contrary to Sherlock's expectations, unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready to escort them. They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Sherlock, he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture — the real drawing-room, used only with company of consequence. It was very noble —  very grand — very charming! — was all that Sherlock had to say, for he cared for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. 

 

When the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on which an humble man might have looked with pride. Sherlock heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than before — gathered all that he could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of half a shelf, and, finding not a single novel, was ready to proceed. Large as was the building, he had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the rooms he had now seen surrounded three sides of the court, he could scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. 

 

It was some relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides; and Sherlock was further soothed in his progress by being told that he was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to him — as intriguingly mysterious as would befit an abbey in a novel — and by finding himself successively in a billiard-room, and in the general's private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or being able to turn aright when he left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room, owning John's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.

 

From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be seen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out the length, they proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen — the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massive walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The general's improving hand was apparent here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.

 

With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been removed by the general's father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary. Sherlock could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Sherlock's, a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of his inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading them on. 

 

They took a slight survey of all; and Sherlock was impressed, beyond his expectation, by their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike him less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. 

 

Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from such as he had read about — from abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger than Southanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Hudson; and, when Sherlock saw what was necessary here, he began to be amazed himself.

 

They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out. Having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which Sherlock’s room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. He was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up. Everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Sherlock. 

 

As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Sherlock, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton." Sherlock felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards himself, and so full of civility to all his family.

 

The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Harriet, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Sherlock thought, rather angrily, back, demanding whither she were going? — And what was there more to be seen? — Had not Mr. Holmes already seen all that could be worth his notice? — And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? 

 

Harriet drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Sherlock, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed himself at last within the reach of something worth his notice; and felt, as he unwillingly paced back the gallery, that he would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general's evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. 

 

Something was certainly to be concealed; Sherlock’s fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead him here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Harriet's, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out: "I was going to take you into what was my mother's room — the room in which she died — " were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Sherlock. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.

 

Sherlock ventured, when next alone with Harriet, to express his wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Harriet promised to attend him there, whenever they should have a convenient hour. Sherlock understood her: the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. 

 

"It remains as it was, I suppose?" said he, in a tone of feeling.

 

“Yes, entirely.”

 

"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”

 

"She has been dead these nine years." 

 

And nine years, Sherlock knew from his novels, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.

 

"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”

 

"No," said Harriet, sighing; "I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and before I arrived it was all over.”

 

Sherlock's blood ran cold with the horrid deductions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could John's father —? And yet how many were the examples, in book after book, to justify even the blackest suspicions! 

 

When Sherlock saw the general in the evening, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, he felt secure from all possibility of being wrong. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! 

 

The anxiousness of Sherlock’s spirits directed his eyes towards General Watson’s figure so repeatedly as to catch Harriet's notice. 

 

"My father," she whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual.”

 

_So much the worse!_ thought Sherlock; such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good.

 

After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made Sherlock peculiarly sensible of John's importance among them, and keenly aware of how much he was missed, he was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not designed for his observation which sent his daughter to the bell. 

 

When the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. 

 

"I have many pamphlets to finish," said he to Sherlock, "before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future mischief.”

 

But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Sherlock from thinking that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Watson yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed.

 

Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her son, at the time — all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin — jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty — was yet to be unravelled.

 

In revolving these matters, while he undressed, it suddenly struck Sherlock as not unlikely that he might that morning have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate woman's confinement — might have been within a few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already he had trodden with peculiar awe, he well remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To what might not those doors lead? 

 

In support of the plausibility of this deduction, it further occurred to him that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Watson, must be, as certainly as his memory could guide him, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of which he had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!

 

Sherlock sometimes started at the boldness of his own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that he had gone too far; but they were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.The side of the quadrangle, in which he supposed the guilty scene to be acting, being, according to his belief, just opposite his own, it struck him that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the general's lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his wife; and, twice before he stepped into bed, Sherlock stole gently from his room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early.

 

The various ascending noises convinced him that the servants must still be up. Till midnight, he supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, he would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock struck twelve — and Sherlock had been half an hour asleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curiouser and curiouser...
> 
> If you'd like a lighter mystery, with riddles to unravel, check out my newest Johnlock ficlet: Z is for Animals.


	23. Being the Twenty-Third Chapter

The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Sherlock's curiosity, his courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. 

 

The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest his imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Watson, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that his eye was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her destroyer, merely served to confirm Sherlock’s ill opinion of the man.

 

That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed shocking to Sherlock. Not, however, that many instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. Sherlock could remember dozens of characters — no less real for being fictional — who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their black career. 

 

The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect Sherlock’s doubts of Mrs. Watson's actual decease. Were he even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber, were he to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed — what could it avail in such a case? Sherlock had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.

 

The succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and when Sherlock knew him to be out of the house, he directly proposed to Harriet the accomplishment of her promise. Harriet was ready to oblige him; and Sherlock reminding her as they went of another promise, their first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. 

 

It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect answered, for Sherlock had depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of John's, of Harriet's — the only portraits of which he had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for generations. But here he was obliged to look and consider and study for a likeness. He contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly.

 

Sherlock’s agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any endeavour at discourse; he could only look at his companion. Harriet's countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and Sherlock, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery, stood before him! 

 

The name of "Harriet" at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Sherlock terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been Sherlock’s first instinctive movement on perceiving the general, yet he could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when Harriet, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by him, had joined and disappeared with her father, Sherlock ran for safety to his own room, and, locking himself in, believed that he should never have courage to go down again. 

 

He remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of his poor friend, and expecting a summons himself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, Sherlock was emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. 

 

The breakfast-room was gay with company; and Sherlock was named to them by the general as the friend of his son and daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make him feel secure at least of life for the present. And Harriet, with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying, "My father only wanted me to answer a note," Sherlock began to hope that he had either been unseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy he should be allowed to suppose himself so. Upon this trust he dared still to remain in General Watson’s presence, after the company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it.

 

In the course of this morning's reflections, Sherlock came to a resolution of making his next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every respect that Harriet should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The general's utmost anger could not be to Sherlock what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, he thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to explain to Harriet the suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could he therefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general's cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, Sherlock felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. 

 

Of the way to the apartment he was now perfectly master; and as he wished to get it over before John's return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, his courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would be only his retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.

 

It was done; and Sherlock found himself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; he hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to his hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe he entered; the room was before him; but it was some minutes before he could advance another step. He beheld what fixed him to the spot and agitated every feature. 

 

Sherlock saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! 

 

He had expected to have his feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. Sherlock could not be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else! — in Miss Watson's meaning, in his own deductions! 

 

This apartment, to which he had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of what the general's father had built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but he had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Watson had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the general's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection. 

 

Sherlock was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in his own room, with his own heart only privy to its folly; and he was on the point of retreating as softly as he had entered, when the sound of footsteps, he could hardly tell where, made him pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the general (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse! Sherlock listened — the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a moment, he passed through and closed the door. 

 

At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which Sherlock had yet to pass before he could gain the gallery. He had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable, he fixed his eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave John to his view.

 

"Captain Watson!" he exclaimed, in a voice of more than common astonishment.

 

John looked astonished too. 

 

"Good God!" Sherlock continued, not attending to his address. "How came you here? How came you up that staircase?”

 

"How came I up that staircase?” John replied, greatly surprised. "Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?”

 

Sherlock recollected himself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. John seemed to be looking in his countenance for that explanation which his lips did not afford. Sherlock moved on towards the gallery. 

 

"And may I not, in my turn," said John, as he pushed back the folding doors, "ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.”

 

"I have been," said Sherlock, looking down, "to see your mother's room.”

 

"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”

 

"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till tomorrow.”

 

"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know — you were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?”

 

"No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”

 

"Very; and does Harriet leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?”

 

"Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday — and we were coming here to these rooms — but only" — dropping his voice — "your father was with us.”

 

"And that prevented you," said John, earnestly regarding him. "Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”

 

"No, I only wanted to see — Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”

 

"It is only a quarter past four" showing his watch — "and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Southanger must be enough.”

 

Sherlock could not contradict it, and therefore suffered himself to be detained, though his dread of further questions made him, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave John’s company. They walked slowly up the gallery. 

 

"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?” John asked.

 

“No, and I am very much surprised. Irene promised so faithfully to write directly.”

 

"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise — the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Harriet should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?”

 

“No."

 

"It has been your own doing entirely?" 

 

Sherlock said nothing. 

 

After a short silence, during which John had closely observed him, he added, "As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character, as described by Harriet, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Harriet, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”

 

"Yes, a great deal. That is — no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly" (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), "and you — none of you being at home — and your father, I thought — perhaps had not been very fond of her.”

 

"And from these circumstances,” John replied (his quick eye fixed on Sherlock’s), "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence — some" — (involuntarily Sherlock shook his head) — "or it may be — of something still less pardonable." 

 

Sherlock raised his eyes towards John more fully than he had ever done before. 

 

"My mother's illness," John continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, was a bilious fever — its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, as I was home at the time, I saw her repeatedly; and from my own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Harriet was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”

 

"But your father," said Sherlock, "was he afflicted?”

 

"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to — we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition — and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”

 

"I am very glad of it," said Sherlock; "it would have been very shocking!”

 

"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to — Dear Sherlock, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are not characters in a novel. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Sherlock, what ideas have you been admitting?”

 

They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame Sherlock ran off to his own room. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone in the mood for a bit of spooky fluff to take your mind off poor Sherlock's woes? Check out my new fic: John Watson and the Curse of the Were-Kitten. https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293157


	24. Being the Twenty-Fourth Chapter

The visions of romance were over. Sherlock was completely awakened. John's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened his eyes to the extravagance of his late fancies than all their disappointments had done. Most grievously was he humbled. Most bitterly did he cry. 

 

It was not only with himself that he was sunk — but with John. Sherlock’s folly — the insupportableness of his deductions, which now seemed even criminal — was all exposed, and John must despise him forever. The liberty which Sherlock’s imagination had dared to take with the character of John’s father — could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of his curiosity and his suspicions — could they ever be forgotten? 

 

Sherlock hated himself more than he could express. John had — Sherlock thought he had — once or twice, before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for him. But now it would all be over. In short, Sherlock made himself as miserable as possible for half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Harriet's inquiry if he was well. 

 

The formidable Captain Watson soon followed him into the dining room. Contrary to expectation, however, the only difference in his behaviour to Sherlock was that he paid him rather more attention than usual. Sherlock had never wanted comfort more, and John looked as if he was aware of it.

 

The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and Sherlock’s spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. He did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but he learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost him John's entire regard. 

 

Sherlock’s thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what he had so illogically felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before he entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened by gothic horrors. He remembered with what feelings he had prepared for a knowledge of Southanger. He saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before his quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading in which he had there indulged.

 

Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that an accurate portrait of human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Sherlock dared not doubt beyond his own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some security for a wife, even if not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. 

 

Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the English, Sherlock believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, he would not be surprised if even in John and Harriet Watson, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction he need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which Sherlock must ever blush to have entertained, he did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.

 

His mind made up on these several points, and his resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, Sherlock had nothing to do but to forgive himself and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for him by insensible gradations in the course of another day. John's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest assistance to him; and sooner than he could have supposed it possible in the beginning of his distress, Sherlock’s spirits became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything John said. There were still some subjects, indeed, under which he believed they must always tremble — the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance — but even he could allow that an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.

 

The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of romance. Sherlock’s desire of hearing from Irene grew every day greater. He was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and especially was he anxious to be assured of Irene's continuing on the best terms with Mycroft. 

 

His only dependence for information of any kind was on Irene. Mycroft had protested against writing to him till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Hudson had given him no hopes of a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. But Irene had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it so particularly strange!

 

For nine successive mornings, Sherlock wondered over the repetition of a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when he entered the breakfast-room, his first object was a letter, held out by John's willing hand. Sherlock thanked him as heartily as if he had written it himself. 

 

"'Tis only from Mycroft, however," Sherlock said to himself, as he looked at the direction. He opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose: 

 

_Dear Sherlock,_  
  
_Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Moriarty and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again._  
  
_James Moriarty, in whose nature I must confess myself to have been entirely deceived, appears now to have orchestrated this whole unfortunate business. Based upon some misapprehension of the financial standing of our family, and my own future prospects, he concocted the scheme of bringing me together with his sister. He manipulated both of us so skillfully that we each believed ourselves to be the object of the other’s genuine affection._  
  
_On my side, I will admit that Irene’s charms played no small role in convincing me that a connexion between us would be desirable. For the lady, however, it appears that a wish of pleasing her brother (and, I suspect, though she would not own it outright, a fear of what he might do, were she to displease him) was the sole motivation behind her encouragement of my attachment. It seems that she was only playing a part, and never had any real affection for me._  
  
_Once Moriarty became aware that I am not, as he would put it, ‘as rich as Croesus’ — nor ever likely to be so — he quickly instructed his sister to dissolve our engagement. I believe she was sincerely sorry to give me pain, though her evident relief at being released from her promise was no great compliment to me. For my part, I am thankful to be undeceived in time._  
  
_Irene also confessed that her brother had ‘persuaded her’ (which, from the tone of her voice, I interpreted to mean ‘threatened her’) to assist in his attempts to further his connection with you. I add her apologies to my own for the ways in which we supported James Moriarty’s designs on you. I am heartily glad that you were not taken in. It would have grieved me to have been the means of promoting the unhappiness of a dear brother by introducing him to a friend — now a former friend — of such unscrupulous morals. Let my folly be a lesson to you: beware how you give your heart._  
  
_Believe me,_  
 _Mycroft_

 

While Sherlock was reading this letter from his brother, Harriet was reading a letter of her own. The two friends, finishing at about the same time, both turned to John, and said, as if in one voice, "You will never believe —"

 

Blushing and laughing, her countenance radiating delight, Harriet said, "Your news, Sherlock, may be the same as my own, though from a different quarter. I shall let you share it."

 

Sherlock did so, omitting only the contents of Mycroft’s final paragraph. Harriet, smiling, revealed that she had received much the same information from Irene. Seeing Sherlock’s hurt expression, she added:

 

"She begged me to tell you, Sherlock, that she would have written to you herself, but that, knowing what you would have heard from your brother, she feared you might cast her letter into the fire, unopened, in rightful indignation."

 

Softened by this, Sherlock said, "Well, I suppose allowances must be made, especially as it seems she was acting under coercion. If Mr. Moriarty is in the habit of treating his sister with the same callousness with which he treats his horse, I shouldn’t wonder at her fearing to cross him."

 

"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature," John said warmly.

 

Sherlock found his spirits so very much buoyed by this approbation that he immediately forgot all about Irene, Mycroft, and James Moriarty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the previous chapter ended with Sherlock in tears, and this one began so, I'm sure those of you who are familiar with my work are not surprised that his suffering was of a very limited duration. I prefer my characters happy. In fact, it is such a particular preference of mine that I have persuaded Jane to give me free rein over the next couple of chapters, so that I might introduce a bit more felicity than she could strictly countenance...


	25. Being the Twenty-Fifth Chapter

Before the day was out, Harriet had contrived for herself an invitation to accompany Mrs. Turner, an old family friend, back to Bath on the morrow. Her father, however, was not at all in favor of this scheme. General Watson expressed great surprise at Harriet’s wish of returning so soon to the place from whence they had so recently come, and greater displeasure in her inhospitality to their guest, to propose going off and leaving him.

 

To the former objection, Harriet gave as her reason (though Sherlock had strong suspicions of another motivation) a wish to be of service to Mrs. Turner, a dear old lady from whom they had all received many kindnesses over the years, and who would otherwise be without any companion on her journey save a servant. The general could not argue against such civility, but still, it would not do to slight Mr. Holmes in favour of Mrs. Turner. Harriet had invited her friend to Southanger Abbey, and could not now expect him to shorten his visit, nor to remain behind without her. 

 

On this point, John stepped in with a solution. "As you know, sir," he said to his father, "I must return to Woodston the day after tomorrow. If he has no objection, I would be delighted to have Sherlock accompany me thither."

 

Sherlock, for whom this offer answered every fondest wish, turned with anxious supplication to the general. "I should very much like to see Woodston," was all that he could manage, in the fullness of his hope, to say.

 

"Well, well, if you are sure you should not mind, I suppose that will do," said General Watson. "But you must not expect anything grand, Mr. Holmes. We are not calling it a fine house. We are not comparing it with Fullerton and Southanger. It may seem to you small and confined, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other words, I believe there are few country houses in England half so good. It may admit of improvement, however."   

 

Sherlock, who had learned his lesson with Southanger Abbey, had no longing for a fine or exciting building. Simply to be with John — in a cottage, cabin, hovel, or shed — would be enough. What a revolution in his ideas! He, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming to his imagination as the unpretending comfort of the place that John called home.

 

It was soon settled that both of General Watson’s children would depart the following morning — Harriet, with Mrs. Turner, for Bath, and John, with Sherlock, for Woodston. It was a day earlier than required by John’s responsibilities as an officer, but as Sherlock was so eager, the general made no further objection.

 

Sherlock was in quite a flutter of spirits the rest of the day. If the next morning should ever come! 

 

It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It came — it was fine — and Sherlock trod on air. By ten o'clock, the carriage conveyed him and John from the abbey. 

 

After an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a favorable situation. Sherlock thought it remarkably pretty; in his heart he preferred it to any place he had ever been, and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little shops which they passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood their destination, Woodston Manor: a large, substantial stone house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates. As they drove up to the door, they were greeted by a large Newfoundland puppy and three terriers, who were ready to receive and make much of them.

 

Sherlock's thoughts and hands were too full of dogs, as he entered the house, for him either to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by John for his opinion of it, he had very little idea of the room in which he was sitting. Upon looking round it then, he perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable room in the world, of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour. A tray full of refreshments was introduced by a servant, and Sherlock enjoyed fresh-baked bread and cold meat, which he surreptitiously shared with his new friends.

 

Once they had eaten, John showed Sherlock about the house. Each room held great interest, insomuch as it provided insight into John’s habits and tastes, but the largest bedroom, belonging particularly to the master of the house, excited Sherlock’s curiosity in a way which somewhat unsettled his spirits. He knew not where to fix his eyes.

 

Forcing himself to speak with composure, Sherlock expressed a wish of seeing the grounds. John readily acquiesced, though with a look — caught by Sherlock from under his lowered lashes — which could not be immediately interpreted. Fearing some censure in it for himself, Sherlock coloured as he followed John from the house. 

 

The influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassed feelings, and Sherlock was shortly restored to his complacency and usual ease of spirits. Once they had reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, he was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground he had ever been in before. 

 

A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o'clock, when Sherlock scarcely thought it could be three. Never had any day passed so quickly!

 

Dinner was a comfortable affair, with Sherlock now feeling relaxed in John’s company. Afterwards, the servants retired to their own quarters, and John and Sherlock to the library. 

 

What a library it was! In size, of course, it could not compare with the great library at Southanger Abbey, but in every other respect it was infinitely superior, at least to Sherlock’s view. Never had he beheld so many novels! To the complete works of Mrs. Radcliffe were added dozens of other authors, and hundreds of other books, each, John assured him, more horrid than the next. 

 

Sherlock, though still ashamed of the unfounded suspicions about General Watson to which his reliance on gothic novels for an understanding of the ways of the world had led him, was nonetheless desirous of reading them all. He expressed as much to his host. 

 

"I think," said John, laughing, "that even you, Sherlock, may find it difficult to read more than one book at a time."

 

"True. But then where shall I begin? Do advise me."

 

Withdrawing a volume from one of the shelves, John said, _"The Romance of the Forest_ is one of my particular favourites. Would you like me to read it aloud?"

 

"Oh! Yes! That would be perfect."

 

John motioned Sherlock into an armchair by the fire, and seated himself in another, nearby. Then, opening the book, he began to read.

 

Sherlock found himself entranced, not only by the story, but by the sound of John’s voice. It was just like being at the theatre! Each character came to life, with his or her own accent and inflection, cadence and tone; and John’s narration was so evocative of the mystery, the adventure, the horror, and the romance, by turns, that Sherlock was quite caught up in the drama of it all. 

 

When at last John lay the book aside, it took Sherlock a full two minutes to return to the present time and location enough to recognize that the suggestion of its being time to retire was made, not to Adeline, but to himself. 

 

"Oh! Yes, I suppose it must be very late."

 

Catching the disappointment in Sherlock’s voice, John replied, "I shall be glad to continue reading tomorrow evening, and the next, till we have discovered the fate of poor Adeline. For now, though, let me show you to your room."

 

Once John had done so, and departed to his own bedchamber, Sherlock found himself lying long sleepless. His thoughts were not, as John had half-teasingly, half-seriously suggested, troubled by the terrors of the novel. Rather, it was the romance that haunted his waking reveries, and, at last, his dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice that instead of 25/? the chapter count now says 25/33? I've finally finished writing this! So, if you've been wondering how long it was going to be (as have I) the answer is in: 8 more chapters. That means my entry in the Sherlock Sunday "Summer" Serial will wrap up just before Christmas.
> 
> I hope you appreciate the effort I made to convince Jane to allow me to send Sherlock and John to Woodston together unchaperoned. She has disavowed all responsibility for the content of the next chapter, but was so good as to provide me with her invaluable advice on style. However, please don't even mention the final chapter to her; as far as she knows, this story concludes at the end of chapter 32; for her peace of mind, let's keep it that way.


	26. Being the Twenty-Sixth Chapter

The fine weather continuing the next day, John proposed, after breakfast, a walking tour of the village and surrounding country, if Sherlock had no objection. Sherlock, who would have acquiesced to a tour of the root cellar, so long as it was to be made in company with John, was all compliance, and it was soon settled between them.

 

The village of Woodston was just as pretty as Sherlock had perceived from the carriage during their journey. To its general and superficial charms were now added the more particular and personal charms of its inhabitants, who instantly gained Sherlock’s approbation by their attentions to himself and his companion.

 

John was universally well-liked in the village. The deference and respect shown to him as owner of Woodston Manor was balanced by a genuine warmth. John showed himself more at ease here than he had in the pomp and ceremony of Bath, or in what should have been the comfort of his family home at Southanger Abbey. He had a pleasant word and a smile for all whom they encountered.

 

Sherlock had soon been introduced to every lady, gentleman, shopkeeper, wandering child, and village dog. Indeed, a few hours in Woodston made him acquainted with a greater number and variety of people than all his weeks in the more populous but also more restrictive society of Bath. The interest of so many new faces and names — great, at first, to one who had been chafing under the limits to his understanding enforced by his lack of experience in the larger world — eventually gave way to a longing for quiet; and Sherlock was glad, at last, to escape with John to the peace of the countryside. 

 

The pleasures of a country walk — as Sherlock was to discover — depend upon a great many considerations. The country itself must, of course, rank high among them. In this, the environs of Woodston were fortunate: rich farmland gave way to noble woods, and a sparkling brook led them through a series of hidden meadows. 

 

The weather, too, must play its part; and here, again, Sherlock felt himself blessed. The rains — which had fallen so generously in previous weeks as to provide them now with a profusion of wildflowers — had been absent long enough to allow the ground to dry to a state which would not endanger their footwear. The sky was clear, save for those few clouds necessary to preserve it from any charge of blandness; and the sun gave just enough warmth for comfort, without any chance that they would overheat from their exertions. Even the wind was favourable — a gentle breeze, carrying the fresh, sweet scent of spring.

 

All of these advantages, however, must pale in comparison with the most important consideration of all — the company in which a country walk is taken. This is where Sherlock found his true pleasure. If a country walk taken with John and Harriet had been delightful, some new and superlative adjective must be coined for the joy Sherlock felt in walking with John alone.  

 

It was not merely the gratification of having John’s attention and conversation all to himself, though that was considerable. No, there was something more; something which Sherlock, in all the time he had so far spent in John’s company, had never heretofore experienced; something which Sherlock had never known, until now, that he desired.

 

The circumstance was this: an old beech had fallen across their path, and John, climbing nimbly over it, had offered Sherlock a steadying hand in his own navigation of the trunk. This, in itself, was nothing unusual; John had previously handed Sherlock in and out of the carriage in proper gentlemanly fashion; their hands had also clasped, as must be expected, when dancing. What was so wonderful in this case, however, was that, having once seen Sherlock safely across the obstacle, John did not release his grip, but instead retained possession of Sherlock’s hand, and continued on their walk, with fingers entwined.

 

Sherlock knew not whether his feet touched the ground; he saw no trees; he heard no birds; he smelled no flowers; he was insensible to everything but John’s hand, holding his own. It was some time, in fact, before he became aware that John was speaking to him, and even longer before was able to attend to the meaning of his words.

 

When Sherlock was finally able to bring himself in hand — and even the thought of that phrase made him blush with consciousness — he realised that John was informing him of his plans for the morrow.

 

"I fear that I shall have to depart early in the morning to attend to my duties in training the new officers," he said, voice regretful, yet surprisingly composed. "I’ll be away the better part of the day, but shall return before sundown. I hope you will be able to amuse yourself in my absence by rambling about the grounds, or availing yourself of the library."

 

Sherlock scarcely knew what he answered, but it must have satisfied John, as he gave Sherlock’s hand a slight squeeze before lapsing into a companionable silence.

 

…

 

That evening found Sherlock and John once again seated in front of the fire in the library, as John read aloud from _The Romance of the Forest_. Unlike the evening before, however, Sherlock found it difficult to attend to the story. The fault lay not with Mrs. Radcliffe’s prose, nor with John’s dramatic narration. No, _The Romance of the Forest_ was supplanted in Sherlock’s imagination by a far more interesting, and — he almost dared hope — less fictional romance.

 

Sherlock only emerged from his reverie when John at last lay the book aside and announced that he would need to retire in preparation for his early start the next day. With an effort to compose himself, Sherlock followed him from the room.

 

As he had the previous night, John escorted Sherlock to his bedchamber. This time, however, he lingered in the doorway. He seemed on the verge of saying something, yet he did not speak.

 

Sherlock, with a pang of consciousness, found himself staring down at John’s hand, remembering the feel of it in his own. John’s hand moved; it reached for Sherlock’s; it lifted Sherlock’s fingers up, up, up. Sherlock’s eyes, following their joined hands, caught sight of John’s lips a moment before they pressed, ever so gently, against his knuckles.

 

There was a gasp, loud in the stillness. Sherlock dimly recognised that it had come from his own lips.

 

"Good night," John said, briefly pressing Sherlock’s hand against his heart. 

 

In the next instant, he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first entirely original chapter I've written in this story. I hope I was able to capture Jane Austen's style, even without borrowing any of her content.
> 
> In the past week I've added two more tales to my Spooky Johnlock Stories series, both of which are much more humorous than actually spooky. You can find them at https://archiveofourown.org/series/560890 Happy Halloween!


	27. Being the Twenty-Seventh Chapter

How could Sherlock be expected to sleep? His mind, body, and spirits were all in such a flutter, he could scarcely be expected to obey the laws of gravity; that he should obey the laws of bedtime was out of the question.

 

John had kissed him. There was no other word for it. John’s lips — his own, dear lips — had pressed themselves to Sherlock’s hand. 

 

It had not been a fantasy, or a daydream; it had not been a wild imagining, based on what he’d read about in novels. — Had it? — No! John was no fictional character. He was flesh and blood; and at this moment Sherlock’s own flesh tingled; his own blood pumped hot beneath the skin John’s lips had touched.

 

What could it mean? There had been no verbal declaration — though, Sherlock reminded himself, he had been so affected by John’s taking his hand during their walk that he barely remembered anything that had been said thereafter — but still, an outright declaration of love must surely have penetrated even the hazy bliss occasioned by the feeling of John’s hand holding his own. 

 

Still, John’s behaviour towards Sherlock must signify a regard far beyond mere friendship. Mustn’t it? Sherlock wished for the thousandth time that he possessed a greater knowledge of society from which to judge.

 

He longed to have someone to whom to turn for guidance — determined, for once, that he would not form his notions of propriety and probability based on the happenings in gothic novels. If only Mrs. Hudson were here! She had always been such a firm friend; one on whom he could rely to have his best interests at heart; one to whom age and experience must have given the wisdom to advise him on this delicate matter.

 

Sherlock contemplated writing to Mrs. Hudson, but soon thought better of it. Though age and experience may have given her wisdom, they also placed her at a remove from the feelings of youth. Sherlock could not expect her to enter into his rapture, his terror, or his helpless longing.

 

Ah, but Sherlock did have a young friend who was perfectly conversant with such feelings. Irene had boldly shared her own raptures, terrors, and longings with him; could not he now do the same with her?

 

It took Sherlock but a moment to determine that no, he could not. Irene was unsuitable as a confidant in every respect. Her familial connection with James Moriarty, and her broken engagement with his own brother, Mycroft, would have been enough to make her unfit for such a role. How much less eligible she must now become, however, if Sherlock’s deductions about the mutual attachment growing between her and Harriet were correct. 

 

Were Sherlock to confide in Irene, he could hold little hope that she would not share his confidences with Harriet; and Harriet, though she had done nothing to forfeit Sherlock’s trust, was John’s sister. As such, she could not be expected to conceal from him anything in which he would have an interest.

 

That John _would_ have an interest in his feelings, Sherlock had no doubt; but what that interest might be — whether of a friendly or a romantic nature — whether wishing to excite still greater attraction, or anxious to avoid doing so — Sherlock dared not surmise. If only he knew, he would have no need to consult with others. Oh! The vicious circle of his thoughts!

 

With so much to occupy his mind, it was no wonder that Sherlock lay many hours awake in his bed. The first glimmer of dawn was already intruding upon the eastern sky before he fell into a fitful sleep; and he had just begun to dream of John when the man himself drove off in his carriage, intent on discharging his duties.

 

Sherlock did not hear John depart. It was nearly noon when he was awakened by the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel sweep outside his window. He sprang up immediately, wondering whether John could have returned so soon.

 

A glance out the window told a different story. Rather than John’s light curricle, Sherlock spied two larger equipages — General Watson’s fine coach-and-four, alongside an unfamiliar post chaise. 

 

Sherlock hastened to dress, so that he might receive the general with tolerable decorum. He had barely put himself to rights before there was a tap upon his door, followed — before he had a chance to respond — by the appearance of a servant.  

 

The man explained, with some apology, that he had been sent by General Watson to help Sherlock pack, as he must leave at once.

 

Sherlock, alarmed, cried, "Oh! Has something befallen Captain Watson?"

 

"No, sir. The general simply recollected a prior engagement which must claim the attention of himself and his son. He has driven off to fetch Captain Watson, and left a post chaise to return you to Fullerton. He says the coachman cannot be kept waiting, as the drive will take the rest of the day, and so I must assist with your packing."

 

Sherlock felt himself numb with shock. Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason — save a vague ‘prior engagement’ — that could justify, and without any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. 

 

John at a distance — not able to bid him farewell — and Sherlock denied even the time to leave him a note. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Watson, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore behaving is if he had been so particularly fond of him! 

 

It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done was so grossly uncivil: hurrying him away without any reference to his own convenience, or allowing him even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of his travelling; without his even being provided with any breakfast — though that was little additional injury, as Sherlock could not have forced himself to swallow a single mouthful. 

 

What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other, Sherlock must have had the misfortune to offend the general. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did the best I could on my own with the beginning of this chapter, but Jane insisted on rejoining me halfway through, so you can blame her for the unsatisfactory conclusion.
> 
> In case you missed it, last Wednesday was the birthday of PatPrecieux, whom many of you will recognize as My Dearest Patricia from the comments on this story. I wrote her a little birthday fic that I think you might enjoy - Rubber Soul Mates - http://archiveofourown.org/works/12550568


	28. Being the Twenty-Eighth Chapter

Sherlock was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for him; and he began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, he was conveyed some miles beyond Woodston before he raised his head. 

 

Every mile added to his sufferings, and when he thought of John, from whom he was passing further away with every moment, his grief was excessive. The time which he had spent with John had been the happiest of his life. And now — what had he done, or what had he omitted to do, to merit such a change?

 

The only offence against General Watson of which Sherlock could accuse himself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. John and his own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which he had so idly entertained; and equally safe did he believe his secret with each. Designedly, at least, John could not have betrayed him. 

 

If, indeed, by any strange mischance the general should have gained intelligence of what Sherlock had dared to think and look for, of his causeless fancies and injurious examinations, he could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of Sherlock’s having viewed him as a murderer, he could not wonder at General Watson’s even turning him from the house. But a justification so full of torture to himself, Sherlock trusted, would not be in the general’s power. 

 

From what other quarter, then, could spring such an abrupt change in the general’s behaviour? Something quite particular must have occurred to cause a man who had hitherto shown him such marked attention, a man who had, in fact, done everything in his power to promote Sherlock’s connexion with both of his children, to suddenly and unceremoniously send him away on what was so clearly a false pretence. What sin on Sherlock’s part could have warranted such treatment?

 

A hot flush suffused Sherlock’s cheeks as an idea darted into his mind. Could General Watson have become aware of the kiss he had allowed John to place on his hand the night before? Had some servant — loyal to the general — ridden through the darkness to Southanger Abbey, bearing news of an unsanctioned relationship unfolding at Woodston Manor?

 

Sherlock once again lamented his lack of experience in such matters. He had no way of knowing to what censure John’s action in bestowing the kiss, or his own in accepting it, might make them liable. Perhaps General Watson was acting in accord with common principles of virtue in ensuring Sherlock’s separation from his son.   

 

Anxious as were all his conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which he dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How John would think, and feel, and look, when he heard of Sherlock’s being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment against his father.

 

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of which Sherlock’s mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours passed away, and his journey advanced much faster than he looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented him from noticing anything before him, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston, saved him at the same time from watching his progress; and though no object on the road could engage a moment's attention, he found no stage of it tedious. 

 

From this, he was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for his journey's conclusion; for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with his parents, even after an absence such as his — an eleven weeks' absence. What had Sherlock to say that would not humble himself and pain his family, that would not increase his own grief by the confession of it, extend a useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? He could never do justice to John and Harriet's merit; he felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut him to the heart. With these feelings, Sherlock rather dreaded than sought for the first view of Fullerton. 

 

A hero returning, at the close of his career, to his native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a lord, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons behind him, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is widely different; I bring back my hero to his home in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A hero in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall his post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of curious onlookers, and speedy shall be his descent from it.

 

But, whatever might be the distress of Sherlock's mind, as he thus advanced towards home, and whatever the humiliation of his biographer in relating it, he was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom he went; first, in the appearance of his carriage — and secondly, in himself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole household were immediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy — a pleasure quite unlooked for by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. 

 

Happy the glance that first distinguished Sherlock! Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! 

 

His father and mother, assembled at the door to welcome him with affectionate eagerness, were a sight to awaken the best feelings of Sherlock's heart; and in the embrace of each, as he stepped from the carriage, he found himself soothed beyond anything that he had believed possible. In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and in the pleasure of seeing him, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Holmes had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to him.

 

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did Sherlock then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of his hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of his sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. 

 

Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their son's long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to him; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing him on such a measure, General Watson had acted neither honourably nor feelingly —  neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their son into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Sherlock himself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder, Mrs. Holmes said at last, "Depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding."

 

"I can allow for his wishing Sherlock away, when he recollected this engagement," said Mr. Holmes, "but why not do it civilly?"

 

"I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Holmes; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Sherlock is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Watson." 

 

Sherlock sighed. 

 

"Well," continued his philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done."

 

Sherlock’s spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon his only wish, he readily agreed to his mother's next counsel of going early to bed. His parents, seeing nothing in his ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the usual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from him without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, his recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of Sherlock’s heart, which, for the parents of a young man of seventeen, just returned from his first excursion from home, was odd indeed!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if poor Sherlock's sufferings here weren't bad enough, I've recently posted a 221B ficlet entitled "Dying of Consumption." https://archiveofourown.org/works/12675207  
> Fortunately for Sherlock, it's only la petite mort...


	29. Being the Twenty-Ninth Chapter

"This has been a strange acquaintance you formed with the Watsons," observed Mrs. Holmes to Sherlock; "soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happened so, for Mrs. Hudson thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly out of luck too in your Irene. Ah! Poor Mycroft! Well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better worth keeping."

 

Sherlock coloured as he warmly answered, "No friend can be better worth keeping than Harriet or John."

 

"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!"

 

Mrs. Holmes was not successful in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Sherlock's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to him. He could never forget John, or think of him with less tenderness than he did at that moment; but John might forget him; and in that case, to meet—! 

 

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears as he pictured his acquaintance so renewed; and his mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring his spirits, that they should call on Mrs. Hudson. The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Holmes quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of Mycroft's disappointment. 

 

"We are sorry for him," said she; "but otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance with; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present it comes hard to poor Mycroft; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice."

 

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Sherlock could listen to; another sentence might have endangered his complaisance, and made his reply less rational; for soon were all his thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection of his own change of feelings and spirits since last he had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, he had there run backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and as free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen him thus; and now, how altered a being did he return!

 

Sherlock was received by Mrs. Hudson with all the kindness which his unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally call forth; and great was her surprise, and warm her displeasure, on hearing how he had been treated — though Mrs. Holmes's account of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to her passions. 

 

"Sherlock took us quite by surprise yesterday evening," said she. "He travelled all the way post by himself, and knew nothing of coming till the moment before he left; for General Watson, from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden turned him out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have Sherlock amongst us again!"

 

Mrs. Hudson expressed herself on the occasion with the reasonable resentment of a sensible friend. Her wonder, her conjectures, and her sympathies were interspersed with repetitions of the heartfelt remark: "I really have not patience with the general." And, "I really have not patience with the general," was uttered twice after Mrs. Holmes departed, leaving Sherlock alone to visit with his old friend.

 

"I am sorry, my dear, that I ever consented to your going to Southanger Abbey," said Mrs. Hudson. "You would have been much happier staying with me. Bath is a nice place, Sherlock, after all. I assure you, I did not above half like coming away; though it was a bit overwhelming when we arrived, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first."

 

"Yes, but that did not last long," said Sherlock, his eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to his existence there.

 

"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Moriarty, and then we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that evening?"

 

"Do I! Oh! Perfectly."

 

"It was very agreeable, was not it? Captain Watson drank tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on."

 

Sherlock could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs. Hudson again returned to: "I really have not patience with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Sherlock. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”

 

Sherlock, who could not bear to think any longer of General Watson, endeavoured to change the subject. “Did you find enough to occupy yourself once I had left Bath?”

 

“Oh, my, yes! I met with another old friend from school, Mrs. Turner. She is a widow also, and childless, as I have always been, and so we had a great many things in common. She has been staying on her own, near Salisbury, but I have invited her to come and live here with me. We were such particular friends as girls, and now I believe we shall be even better. She arrives next week, Sherlock, and I am sure that you will like her.”

 

Sherlock agreed to this, but without properly attending to half of what was said. If he had not been so consumed by his own misery, perhaps he would have noticed the blush that sprang to Mrs. Hudson’s face as she talked of her old ‘friend’.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way back at chapter 3, DaisyFairy commented, "I'm starting to feel very sorry for Mrs Hudson, she seems very lonely. Is there perhaps a gentleman caller on the horizon for her?" Well, I hadn't planned on providing her with a love interest of her own, but since she was so instrumental in bringing Sherlock and John together, I decided it would be only fair. Instead of a gentleman caller, however, I've done her one better. What do you think of a match between her and Mrs. Turner?
> 
> Next week I'll be introducing yet another little romantic subplot. Any guesses as to the lucky couple?


	30. Being the Thirtieth Chapter

Sherlock's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had his habits been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been his defects of that sort, his mother could not but perceive them now to be greatly increased. He could neither sit still nor employ himself usefully for ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if he must even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time in the parlour. His loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In his rambling and his idleness he might only be a caricature of himself; but in his silence and sadness he was the very reverse of all that he had been before.

 

For two days Mrs. Holmes allowed it to pass even without a hint; but when a third night's rest had neither restored Sherlock’s cheerfulness, improved him in useful activity, nor given him a greater inclination for pleasant conversation, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, "My dear Sherlock, your head runs too much upon Bath. There is a time for everything — a time for balls and plays, and a time for home. You have had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be content here.”

 

Sherlock said, in a dejected voice, that his head did not run upon Bath — much.

 

“Then you are fretting about General Watson, and that is very simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret about trifles." 

 

After a short silence, Mrs. Holmes added, "I hope, my Sherlock, you are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as Southanger Abbey. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you mention the French bread at Southanger.”

 

"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what I eat.”

 

Mrs. Holmes’ reply was interrupted by the arrival of a servant bearing a letter from her other son. Waiting only for her husband join them, she opened Mycroft’s letter and read it aloud. Its contents were such as could scarcely be believed.

 

_My Dearest Family,_

 

_I have news that I think will be of interest to you all. Having received word of Sherlock’s return to Fullerton, I am thankful to be spared the necessity of writing more than this single letter._

 

_As you know, James Moriarty has been enrolled here at Oxford with me, though I had not seen nor heard from him — whether through luck or design — since I learned of his interference in the, shall we say, ‘situation’ between his sister and myself. Yesterday evening, I received a visit from a young Detective Inspector by the name of Greg Lestrade. He had been informed of my friendship with Mr. Moriarty, and, not realising that it was a thing of the past, had come to me for intelligence regarding that self-styled gentleman’s whereabouts. I was able to direct him to an establishment that I knew Moriarty was wont to frequent, and, at his request, attended him thither, that I could point out his quarry, as he did not know the man by sight._

 

_Once Moriarty had been located, D.I. Lestrade informed him that he was under arrest for having committed a series of robberies to pay off his gambling debts, totalling over a thousand pounds. You may imagine how shocked I was to hear this; but my surprise was nothing to that of Mr. Moriarty on having been found out. He attempted to elude capture by rushing out and grabbing his horse, with the intent of riding off. That poor, abused animal, however, had finally had enough of his mistreatment. It spun around and delivered such a kick to Moriarty’s head as left him senseless on the ground. I helped D.I. Lestrade bundle him into a carriage for transport to London, though whether he will ever recover enough to be fit to stand trial, God only knows._

 

_I must confess to finding it delightfully ironic that James Moriarty, who introduced me to his sister with the intention of engaging my interest for purely mercenary reasons, should now have inadvertently been the means of introducing me to someone for whom I believe I may be developing genuine feelings. Greg Lestrade is a most amiable young man, as I hope you will agree when, with your consent, I bring him to visit Fullerton._

 

_Your dutiful son and brother,_

_Mycroft_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six months ago, in a comment on chapter 3, NovaNara mentioned hoping for some Mystrade in this fic; and later, in a comment on chapter 9, said, “The evil in me wishes Jim had been saying the truth about his horse, so that once he was travelling alone it might act out and take him out of commission!” Now, at long last, both of her wishes have come true. 
> 
> Next week, I do believe that all of my readers’ wishes will come true…


	31. Being the Thirty-First Chapter

The wonder created by Mycroft’s letter would not soon fade. Mr. Moriarty, a criminal; Mr. Moriarty, arrested; Mr. Moriarty, knocked senseless by a kick to the head from his horse; all these facts held interest enough. But that Irene’s place should be so soon supplanted, and by a Detective Inspector, no less, was news such as must penetrate even Sherlock’s languor and listlessness. 

 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, too, were greatly affected by their son’s letter. After a brief conversation with Sherlock, they retired together to the study, that they might craft their reply. No time must be lost in assuring Mycroft that they were of one mind in welcoming an early visit from himself and D.I. Greg Lestrade.

 

Mrs. Holmes remained shut up with her husband for half an hour, and so engrossed was she in the perusal of Mycroft’s letter, and in penning the proper response thereto, that she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on re-entering the sitting room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her self-conscious son as "Captain John Watson," with the embarrassment of real sensibility he began to apologise for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Sherlock’s having reached his home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. 

 

Captain Watson did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Holmes had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her son, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past.

 

John was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Holmes's common remarks about the weather and roads. Sherlock meanwhile — the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Sherlock — said not a word; but his glowing cheek and brightened eye made his mother trust that this good-natured visit would at last set his heart at ease regarding General Watson.

 

Desirous of Mr. Holmes' assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father's account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Holmes dispatched one of the servants to summon him; but Mr. Holmes was from home — having departed through the garden door to post their letter to Mycroft himself. Being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour Mrs. Holmes had nothing left to say. 

 

After a couple of minutes' unbroken silence, John, turning to Sherlock for the first time since his mother's entrance, asked him, with sudden alacrity, if Mrs. Hudson had returned from Bath. And on parsing, from amidst all his perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to her, and, with a rising colour, asked Sherlock if he would have the goodness to show him the way. Though she might have pointed out that Captain Watson could see Mrs. Hudson’s house from the sitting-room window, Mrs. Holmes, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbour, that he might have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Sherlock, would not on any account prevent her son from accompanying him. 

 

They began their walk, and Mrs. Holmes was not entirely mistaken in John’s object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain _himself,_ and before they reached Mrs. Hudson's grounds he had done it so well that Sherlock did not think it could ever be repeated too often. He was assured of John’s affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own. Sherlock’s hand, which John had so boldly held, had so bewitchingly kissed, he now, in plain and simple terms, asked for in matrimony; and Sherlock, for his part, was only too glad to promise it. 

 

The nearness of the Holmes’ residence to Mrs. Hudson’s was, for the first time, felt by Sherlock to be a disadvantage. That their progress could be — and quite probably was — observed by both his mother and his friend, through their respective windows, prevented any detour; and within a few more steps they were at the gate. A very short visit to Mrs. Hudson and the newly arrived Mrs. Turner then followed, in which John talked at random, without sense or connection, and Sherlock, rapt in the contemplation of his own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened his lips, before they were dismissed to the ecstasies of another tete-a-tete.

 

A country walk, which had proven so efficacious to the advancement of their intimacy in Woodston, was proposed by John as an alternative to the direct route back. Sherlock readily acquiesced to this suggestion, and led his beloved to a path which, by virtue of its holding no allure for the inhabitants of the village in general, currently held the greatest allure for one inhabitant in particular. That it was neither picturesque nor convenient was of no consequence, for the two young men had eyes only for each other, and no destination in mind save for each other’s company.

 

John now lay out the explanation — such as it was — of his father’s behaviour in sending Sherlock away from Woodston Manor. General Watson had had nothing to accuse him of, nothing to lay to his charge, but his being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which the general’s pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. Sherlock was guilty only of being less rich than John’s father had supposed him to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of Sherlock’s possessions and claims, General Watson had courted his acquaintance in Bath, solicited his company at Southanger, and designed him for his son-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn Sherlock from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards him, and his contempt of the entire Holmes family.

 

James Moriarty had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Sherlock, had accidentally inquired of Moriarty if he knew more of him than his name. Moriarty, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Watson's importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Mycroft’s engaging Irene, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Sherlock himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his avarice had made him believe them. 

 

With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, Moriarty’s own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Mycroft, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Irene been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Holmes' preferment, trebling his private fortune, and bestowing a rich aunt, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Sherlock, however, the peculiar object of the general's curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the twenty or thirty thousand pounds which his father could give him would be a pretty addition to Mrs. Hudson's estate. Sherlock’s intimacy there had made Moriarty seriously determine on his being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of him therefore as the almost acknowledged future heir of Fullerton naturally followed. 

 

Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Moriarty's interest in the family, by his sister's approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of Mrs. Hudson being wealthy and childless, of Sherlock's being under her care, and — as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge — of her treating him with parental kindness. 

 

General Watson’s resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Sherlock in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Moriarty's communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening that gentleman’s boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. 

 

Sherlock himself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than the general’s own children. John and Harriet, perceiving nothing in his situation likely to engage their father's particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach him, John was convinced of his father's believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Woodston that he had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. 

 

That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Moriarty himself, who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Sherlock's refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Mycroft and Irene, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, wrote an insidious letter to the general, in which he hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Holmes family — confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. Even Mrs. Hudson, he believed, had lived near them too long, and would leave the Fullerton estate to someone more deserving. 

 

The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next morning for Woodston, where his performances have been seen.

 

I leave it to my readers’ sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for John to communicate at this time to Sherlock, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, how much through his correspondence with Harriet, who had learned of it from Irene, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Sherlock, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Watson of either murdering or shutting up his wife, he had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.

 

John, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between himself and the general had been of the most unfriendly kind. John's indignation on hearing how Sherlock had been treated, on comprehending his father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. 

 

The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate John, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Sherlock, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.

 

He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Sherlock, and as steadily declared his intention of offering him his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. John, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned alone to Woodston, and, as soon as he had discharged his duties as an officer, had begun his journey to Fullerton.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has declared himself at last, but will General Watson stand in the way of his happiness with Sherlock? Tune in next week to find out.


	32. Being the Thirty-Second Chapter

In addition to his wish of laying out all of the particulars of his father’s and his own motivations, John had a further reason for desiring a private walk with Sherlock, safe from any chance of observation. Once all had been said that must be said, all explained, all understood between them, the time for words was past. It was time for communication of a different sort.

 

Sherlock, mind still reeling from all he had heard, was pulled from his reveries by John’s coming to an abrupt halt. Turning to face his betrothed, Sherlock observed the deepening blue of his eyes, and the rising flush of his cheeks, before allowing his gaze to drift down to John’s mouth, where the pink of his tongue was just peeking out to wet his lips. Sherlock felt his own cheeks flush, and his own lips part in wordless entreaty.

 

John tilted his face up; Sherlock tilted his face down; they both leaned in by hairs’ breadths; until, at last, their lips met in gentle communion. The kiss made Sherlock tingle, like the air before a storm. He gasped, and would have pulled away, had John’s hand not risen to cup the back of his head, holding him in place. 

 

“Please…” John murmured against his lips.

 

What answer could Sherlock return but “Yes”?   

 

…

 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' surprise on being applied to by Captain Watson, on his returning with Sherlock to their home, for their consent to his marrying their son, was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Sherlock's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection. John’s pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation. 

 

There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while Captain Watson’s father so expressly forbade the connexion, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they would not make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained — and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied — their willing approbation was instantly to follow. 

 

General Watson’s consent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their own son.

 

The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored — but they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection. John returned to Woodston Manor, which was now his only home, to extend his improvements for Sherlock’s sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and Sherlock remained at Fullerton to cry. 

 

Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes never did — they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Sherlock received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.

 

The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of John and Sherlock, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will surely know, if they have been privy to any of my other works, that we are all hastening together toward perfect felicity. I have not the power of building true suspense; the means by which their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt.

 

What probable exigency could work upon a temper like the general's? The circumstance which chiefly availed was the elopement of his daughter to Gretna Green to wed Irene Moriarty. This ignominious marriage of Harriet to a woman with no fortune at all, and worse than no family connections, threw the general into such a rage that he disowned her completely, and immediately made over all his fortune to John. 

 

In his investigation into the family of his new (though unacknowledged) daughter-in-law, General Watson discovered that he had been scarcely more misled by James Moriarty's first boast of the Holmes family’s wealth than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were they necessitous or poor, and that Sherlock would have ten thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every greedy speculation.

 

On the strength of this, the general, soon after Harriet's marriage, permitted his son to return to Southanger, and thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. 

 

The event which it authorised soon followed: John and Sherlock were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the general's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the moral of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or to preach the rewards of filial disobedience.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the final chapter, coming (shhh! don’t tell Jane!) next week.


	33. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shh... Don't tell Jane...

By all the rules which govern a respectable literary work, the previous chapter should have encompassed the conclusion of this tale. Once the young hero has married, what more can be said, but that he lived happily ever after? Those wishing for an epilogue may, perhaps, enquire as to the felicity of Harriet and Irene in their matrimonial state, or demand to know the outcome of Mycroft’s interest in Greg Lestrade, or request the details of the domestic arrangements of Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner; to all of which I can return the most favourable reply. A further intrusion into the intimate relations between Sherlock and John, however, must, of course, be out of the question.

 

Is this not universally acknowledged to be so?

 

My co-author avers that it is; I, on the other hand, beg to differ.

 

I shall leave it to your own judgement, then, dear readers, whether you wish to consign the evening following the nuptials of Sherlock and John to the gauzy veil of propriety, or whether you dare to pull aside the curtains to reveal the newly wedded husbands’ bedchamber. To those of you who hold to the virtues of discretion, I shall now bid a fond adieu. Meanwhile, I invite the curious ones who choose to remain with me to gather ‘round, that we may partake of our young hero’s bliss.

 

Once their vows had been made, once their guests had departed, once the servants had been dismissed to their own quarters, John led his new husband to what would, from this day forth, be their shared bedroom. Sherlock, who expected to be shown to a private dressing room, where he would attire himself in appropriately modest fashion before slipping into bed to sleep, was surprised to find John’s fingers at his throat, loosening his cravat.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

 

“Undressing you,” was John’s succinct reply.

 

“But you are no valet,” said Sherlock, in some confusion.

 

“No; I am your husband, and you are mine. I believe it is time for us to unwrap our wedding gifts.”

 

For a genius, Sherlock was surprisingly slow in grasping John’s meaning. 

 

Sensing his hesitation, John said, “I hope I have not erred in presuming you desire the consummation our union.”

 

“How can you ask such a thing? Did not we consummate our marriage before our friends, our family, our neighbours, and God Himself in the church today?”

 

“My love, the vows we spoke were a solemn consecration, binding our souls together for eternity. I speak now of a _physical_ consummation, to bind our bodies together as one.”

 

“But was not the kiss we shared before the congregation that physical consummation of which you speak?”

 

“Oh, no, my love. That kiss was but a promise of what is to come.”

 

Sherlock now blushed in the sudden awareness of his own naïveté. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had not deemed it necessary to instruct their son regarding conjugal expectations; and when Mycroft had tentatively broached the subject, Sherlock had waved him off, believing (erroneously, he now realised) that he and John had already engaged in a pre-marital consummation of their union by kissing in the woods behind Mrs. Hudson’s house. If such a transcendent experience had been but a prelude, what heights of ecstasy might yet lay in store?

 

Fortunately for Sherlock, John was quite willing and able to answer that question. He began by removing Sherlock’s garments, slowly and reverently. Once Sherlock had been divested of his clothes, John laid him down upon the bed, before undressing himself. 

 

Sherlock’s natural curiosity won out over his shyness, and he gazed with open admiration at John’s strong, compact form, now tantalisingly on display. John stood perfectly still, and Sherlock could not help allowing his eyes to linger on the single part of his husband’s body that moved of its own accord, transforming as if by magic. A quick glance downward confirmed that Sherlock’s own body was mirroring John’s.

 

Embarrassed, Sherlock brought his hands down to cover the growing evidence of his arousal. John stepped forward and grasped Sherlock’s hands, bringing them to his lips, and kissing the fingertips one by one.

 

“There is no need to hide, my love,” he murmured between kisses. “You are my husband, and I am yours; there is no part of you that I do not wish to see.”

 

By slow degrees, John eased himself down onto the bed, and began a series of exquisitely gentle caresses. Sherlock was a tender flower bud, and John’s fingers the warm rays of the sun, coaxing him open, petal by petal, until he lay fully unfurled, radiant in the glow of John’s love. When at last their bodies conjoined, Sherlock moaned and shuddered in rapture, as John drew out the sweet nectar of his release. Eventually they collapsed together, spent.

 

…

 

Here, dear readers, I fear we must tiptoe away, leaving Sherlock cradled in John’s embrace, as the two drift euphorically off into sleep. The end of my tale is only the beginning of theirs, however: for when a young man is born to be a hero, something must and will happen to throw a love interest in his way; and when that young man is Sherlock Holmes, and that love interest is John Watson, their story will endure through the ages.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearly Beloved Readers,
> 
> I thank you from the bottom of my heart for joining me on this literary adventure. Your kind comments and kudos mean the world to me. Perhaps the sweet sorrow of our parting here may be eased by your support of my other collaboration with the illustrious Jane Austen. I look forward to continuing our weekly trysts over the pages of Not Entirely Clueless. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
> ChrisCalledMeSweetie

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Southanger Abbey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058439) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




End file.
